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The   Two  Sisters.     This  is  Mrs. 
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RTH'S  WORKS. 
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>  T,  B. 


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*)  Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail  to  any  one,  Free  (/ 
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COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE; 

OR,    THK 

s  anb  jlorrotos  of  American  *£ifr. 


MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  IIENTZ. 

AUTHOR  OF  "ERXE8T  L1SWOOD,"  "AIJXT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAC,"  "  PLAXTEIt'S 
NOUTHKKX  BRIDE,"  "UKDA,"  "  KK.NA."  ETC. 


nn<l   Ticenty- 


Complete  in  one  larg«  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  fur  One  1  >.':•,•  nn<l 
jii't   Cc*tl  ;  or  in  two  volume*,  poptr  cuctr,  j»r  (Jn«  Jj^iitir. 

This  work  will  be  found,  on  pc  rural  by  all,  to  bo  one  of  tliu  mo'-t  exciting, 
interesting,  and  popular  work*  that  has  ever  emanated  from  t'uu  American 
Press.  It  U  written  in  a  charming  style,  an  1  trill  elicit  through  all  a 
thrill  of  deep  aod  exquisite  pleasure.  It  is  a  work  which  the  oldest  and 
the  youngest  may  alike  read  with  profit  It  abounds  with  the  most  beauti- 
ful toenio  descriptions;  and  displays  an  intimulo  acquaintance  with  all 
Obues  of  human  character;  all  the  characters  being  exceedingly  well 
drawn.  It  U  a  delightful  book,  full  of  incident.*,  oftentimes  bold  and 
FlarUio£,  and  describes  the  warm  feeling*  of  the  Southerner  in  glowing 
colors.  Indeed,  all  Mrs.  llenti'.«  stories  nj  t!y  describe  Southern  life,  and 
are  highly  moral  in  their  application.  In  thi.«  field  Mr.i.  llent/.  wields  a 
keen  sickle,  and  harvest*  a  rich  and  ahuixlnnt  crop.  It  will  bo  found  in 
piot,  incident,  and  management,  to  bo  a  ruperior  work.  In  the  \rholo 
range  of  elegant  moral  fiction,  there  cannot  bo  found  any  thing  of  mor« 
inestimable  ralne,  or  superior  to  this  work,  and  it  i«  a  gem  that  will  well 
repay  a  careful  perusal.  The  Publisher  feels  a.«*ured  that  it  will  gire 
entire  satisfaction  to  all  renders,  encourage  good  taste  and  good  morals, 
and  while  away  many  leisure  hours  with  p-n-ut  pivaxure  and  profit,  and  be 
recommended  to  others  by  all  that  peru.«e  it. 

It  i*  generally  true  that  "  authors  should  be  rend—  not  known."  Mri>. 
Hentz  is  an  exception,  for  she  was  not  ouly  gifted  as  a  writer,  but  nature 
had  been  lavish  of  gilts  npon  her  outward  person.  A  distinguished  critic, 
once  writing  about  Mrs.  Hentz,  u-.-il  the  following  truthful  language  : 

41  Never  met  I  a  more  fascinating  person.  Mind  is  enthroned  on  her 
noble  brow,  and  bvsiin."  in  the  fln.«hing  glance'  of  her  radiant  eves.  She 
b  tall,  graceful  and  digniBcd,  with  that  high-bred  manner  which  ever 
betokens  gentle  blood.  She  hno  infinite  tact  and  talent  in  conversation, 
and  never  speaks  without  awakening  interest.  As  I  listened  to  her  elo- 
quent language  I  felt  she  was  indeed  worthy  of  the  wreath  of  immortality 
which  fame  has  given  in  other  days  and  other  laud*,  to  a  De  Genlis,  or  t« 
a  De  Sevign6.  v 

"She  has  great  enthusiasm  of  character,  the  enthusiasm  Ascribed  hf 


13  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE   HEXTZ'S  WORKS. 

Madame  De  Stael  us  '  God  witttii  ...'-the  love  of  the  good,  the  holy,  A. 
beautiful.  She  hns  neither  pretension  nor  pedantry,  and  although  admira- 
bly accomplished  and  a  perfect  clascic  and  belles-lettres  scholar,  she  hal 
all  the  cjveet  simplicity  of  an  elegant  woman.  There  is  a  refill  rent, 
delicacy  and  poetic  imagery  in  all  her  historiettos  tonebingly  delightful, 
a  calm  ami  holy  rolip..n  is  mirrored  in  every  page.  The  s«,>rrow.stri<  ken 
mourner  finds'  therein  the  sweet  and  healing  bnlin  of  consolation,  and  the 
bitter  tears  cease  to  flow  when  she  points  to  that  bettor  land,  where  (he 
loved  and  the  lost  are  waiting  for  us.  She  exalts  all  that  is  good,  nol.le 
and  generous  in  the  human  heart,  and  gives  to  even  the  clouds  <•!'  exist- 
eneo  a  sunny  softness,  like  the  dreamy  light  of  a  Claude  Lorraine  picture." 

MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  OTHER  WORKS. 

T.  B.  Peterson  having  lately  purchased  the  stereotype  plates  of  the 
following  writings  of  Mrs.  Hentz,  he  has  now  in  press  and  shall  isjue  in 
a  few  days,  a  new,  uniform  and  beautiful  edition  of  all  the  works,  printed 
on  a,  much  finer  and  better  paper,  and  in  far  superior  style  to  what  they 
have  ever  before  been  issued  in,  copies  of  any  one  or  all  of  which  will  be 
sent  to  any  place  in  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  remit- 
tances.  Each  book  will  contain  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  HenU.  The  following 
are  the  names  of  these  world-wide  celebrated  works : 

THE  LOST  DAUGHTER;  and  Other  Stories  of  the  Heart.  (Just  pub- 
lished.) Two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE.  With  illustrations.  Two 
volumes,  paper  cover,  600  pages,  price  $1,  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

LINDA.  THE  YOUNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE  CREOLE.  Two 
vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

ROBERT  GRAHAM.  The  Sequel  to,  and  continuation  of  Linda.  Two 
vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.00;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

RENA;  or,  THE  SNOW  BIRD.  A  Tale  of  Real  Life.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.00 ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  or,  THE  LONG  MOSS  SPRING.  Two  vol«., 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

EOLINE;  or,  MAGNOLIA  VALE.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.00;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.00;  or 
one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE;  and  Other  Stories.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.  Price  §1.00  ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

T^E  B^nHED  SON;  and  Other  Stories-  T™  ™l«->  P»P«r  cover. 
Price  $1.00;  or.one  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

fSf  Copies  of  either  edition  of  any  of  the  above  works  will  be  vent  to 
any  person,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  fre«  of  pottage,  «n  their 
remitting  the  price  of  the  ones  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter. 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  •       T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 


MBS.    CAROLINE    LEE    HKNTZ. 


COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE; 


OR,   THE 


$ons  anb  jsorrotos  of  American  £ 


MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HEXTZ. 

ACTIIOR  OF  "  KRNEST  LIKWOOD."  "LINDA."  -THE  PLANTER'S  NORTI11 
BK1DK,"  "AUNT  PATTY'S  fiCKAP  BAG,'    KTC.,  ETC. 


M8h«  tom'd— «nd  her  mothrrV  g*i*  bmaght  Uck 
Knch  hnr  of  h-r  rhildhoa.IV  flid.-d  tmck. 
Oh!   hu»h  th>-  M'tic,  •ml  let  II.T  l.-nrn 
Flow  to  the  dn-«m  of  her  early  yi-«r»  I 
lli.lr  «nU  purt-  nr.-  (In-  drop*  that  full. 
\\h\-n  the  youn(  t,i  .,!,•  k-,-«  from  her  father'*  hall ; 
Sk*  |0«  onto  lore  yet  untried  and  n«w — 
ft*  puts  from  lore  which  bath  «U11  been  true.-— 


P  I)  i  I  a  b  c  1 »  In  a  : 

T.    B.    PETERSON    AND    BROTHERS, 
806    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered,  sccording  to  Act  of  Congrew,  in  the  yo»r  ISM,  by 
T.    B.    PETKHSON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  State*,  In  »nd  for  tb* 
KwU-ru  District  of  1'cun.iyltBDUt. 


CONT  ENT  S. 


BOOK  I.  ,AU8 

Tu«  PET  BEACTT 23 

BOOK    II. 
THE  FORTCMW  op  A  Yoi-xo  PHYSIOUX,  .         70 


BOOK   III. 
THR  Two  SISTERS  AND  THE  Two  Uxruw 130 

BOOK   IV. 
THB  MOB  CAP;  OR,  Mr  GRANDMOTHER'S  TRU.YK,  ....  182 

BOOK   V. 
Tire  PEDLER     THB  SEQIKL  TO  THK  MOB  CAP 224 

BOOK   VI. 
TIIE  BEAUTY  TRAXSFORITCD 2G9 

BOOK  VII. 
TUB  DRUNKARD'S  DACGIITKR, 848 

BOOK  VIII. 
FATHER  HIL.ARIO,  THE  CATHOLIC, 378 

2034556        (21) 


22  CONTENTS. 

BOOK   IX.  '»•- 

.     .     .413 

THE  TE>TPTED 

BOOK  X. 

448 
ACNT  MERCY,       

BOOK  XI. 
THE  VILLAGE  PASTOR'S  WIFE 4' 

BOOK  XII. 
THANKSGIVING  DAT, • *' 

BOOK  XIII. 
THK  STRANGER  IT  THE  BAMQUET, M* 


COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE; 

OR,   THE 

JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE. 


|tt 


MR.  HORTOX,  a  rich  and  childless  widower,  made 
his  first  visit  to  his  also  widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Dushnne. 
A  beautiful  little  girl  of  about  ten,  was  introduced  to 
him  as  the  darling  Clara,  his  little  pet  niece,  who  was 
prepared  to  love  her  uncle  better  than  any  body  el.^o 
in  the  world,  always  excepting  her  mamma.  The  child 
was  remarkably  beautiful,  and  all  the  decorations  of 
dress  were  made  to  enhance  her  juvenile  loveliness. 
The  heart  of  the  lonely  man  melted  within  him  when 
he  felt  his  neck  wreathed  by  those  white  velvet  arms, 
and  his  cheek  kissed  over  and  over  by  those  sweet 
ruby  lips. 

"God  bless  her!1'  cried  he,  hugging  her  to  his  breast, 
igain  and  again.  "  What  a  precious  child  it  is!" 

"I  love  you,  dear  uncle,"  muttered  Clara,  in  the 
•oftest  voice — "  I  have  loved  you  a  long  time." 

Mr.  Horton  gave  the  lovely  child  another  warm 
embrace,  then,  releasing  her,  turned  to  his  sister,  with 
moistened  eyes. 

(23) 


24  COURTSHIP  AND  iiARRIAGE;    OK,  THE 

"If  Heaven  had  granted  me  such  a  child  as  that, 
sister,  to  cheer  my  widowed  heart,  I  should  still  be 
one  of  the  happiest  of  men." 

"  You  must  look  upon  her  as  if  indeed  she  were 
your  own,  my  dear  brother,"  said  Mrs.Dushane,  draw- 
ing  Clara  fondly  towards  her.  "  I  am  not  so  selfish 
as  to  wish  to  engross  her  exclusively,  though  I 
acknowledge  I  have  a  mother's  pride  as  well  as  affec- 
tion." 

"But  you  have  another  daughter,  your  eldest  born — 
where  is  she?  My  heart  yearns  to  embrace  them  all.  I 
came  here  to  see  if  its  aching  void  could  not  be  filled." 

"Oh!  Erne?"  said  Mrs.  Dushane,  carelessly.  "I  do 
not  know  where  she  is.  She  is  very  shy  and  reserved 
— likes  to  be  by  herself — very  different  from  Clara — 
remarkably  ordinary  in  her  person,"  continued  she,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  and  has  a  very  singular  and  sullen  dis- 
position. She  is  a  great  affliction  to  me,  but  one  can- 
not expect  to  be  blessed  in  all  her  children." 

"  Still  I  want  to  see  the  child,"  said  the  benevolent 
Mr.  Horton.  "  I  loved  her  father  like  my  own  brother, 
and  he  used  to  say  his  little  girl  was  the  image  of  him- 
self; I  cannot  help  loving  his  daughter." 

"I  fear  you  will  not  find  much  to  love  in  poor  Erne," 
replied  the  mother,  with  a  deep  sigh;  "but  you  shall 
see  her;"  then  ringing  the  bell,  she  ordered  a  servant 
to  bring  Miss  Erne  to  her  uncle. 

Soon  after,  a  dark,  thin,  neglected-looking  child  was 
ushered  into  the  room,  who  hung  back  on  the  hand 
of  the  servant,  and  whose  looks  and  gestures  expressed 
sullenness  and  reluctance.  Her  long,  thick,  dark  hair 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN   LIFE.  25 

hung  in  tangled  masses  over  her  neck  and  forehead, 
and  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  her  features,  for  she 
endeavoured  to  cover  them  with  her  hair,  as  with  a  veil. 
With  slow  steps  and  averted  face,  she  approached  the 
centre  of  the  room,  when  her  mother  called  to  her  in 
a  tone  of  authority — 

"  Put  down  your  hand  from  your  face,  Effie,  and 
come  and  speak  to  your  uncle — come — quicker." 

Effie  looked  at  her  uncle  through  her  long 
tresses,  then,  letting  her  hand  fall,  she  drew  nearer, 
with  a  more  willing  step. 

"Ah!  that  was  her  father's  glance,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Horton,  opening  his  arms  as  he  spoke. 

Effie  hesitated  a  moment,  then  darted  like  lightning 
to  his  bosom,  and  clung  round  his  neck  with  both 
her  arms,  as  if  she  would  never  let  him  go. 

"  Effie,"  said  her  mother,  reproachingly,  "  you  are 
too  rude — I  did  not  tell  you  to  tear  your  uncle  to 
pieces." 

"  Let  her  be — let  her  be,"  said  Mr.  Horton,  pushing 
back  her  hair,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face. 
"  Why  her  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  and  her  heart  beats 
as  if  she  had  been  running  a  race.  Don't  be  afraid 
of  me — I'm  your  uncle,  who  has  no  little  girl  of  his 
own  to  love;  I  want  you  to  look  upon  me  as  a 
father." 

"That  will  do,  Effie,"  said  Mrs.  Dushane;  "you 
make  your  uncle  too  warm— come  and  take  a  seat  by 
me." 

Effie  withdrew  her  arms  from  her  uncle's  neck,  and, 
sliding  from  his  knee,  took  the  seat  indicated  by  her 


26  COUR1SHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,   THE 

mother's  glance.    Mr.  Horton's  eyes  were  still  riveted 
upon  her  face.  • 

"Is  that  child  sick?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Dushane— "  she  always  has  that 
meagre'  half-famished  look.  She  is  a  great  deal 
stronger  than  Clara." 

Mr.  Hortou  did  not  reply,  but  looked  earnestly  at 
both  children,  while  his  sister  watched  his  counte- 
nance with  silent  interest.  Mrs.  Dushane  had  antici- 
pated the  arrival  of  her  brother  with  great  anxiety. 
She  knew  the  immense  wealth  he  had  acquired— that 
he  had  no  children  of  his  own  to  inherit  it— that  she 
was  his  only  surviving  sister,  and  she  was  sure  that 
the  moment  he  beheld  her  darling  Clara,  he  would 
adopt  her  as  the  heiress  of  his  fortune. 

"My  dear,"  said  she  to  her,  the  morning  of  her 
brother's  arrival,  "you  remember  how  much  I  have 
told  you  of  your  Uncle  Horton — your  rich  uncle. 
Now,  though  we  have  a  very  decent  living,  that  is  all ; — 
I  shall  be  able  to  leave  you  nothing,  but  your  uncle  is 
said  to  be  worth  a  million — and,  I  have  no  doubt, 
will  make  you  heiress  to  the  whole,  if  you  only  try  to 
please  him,  and  be  a  dear,  sweet,  beautiful  child,  the 
whole  time  he  is  here." 

"  Oh !  I  will  be  sure  to  please  him,"  cried  Clara, 
dancing  before  the  looking-glass.  "Ill  please  him 
without  trying." 

"How  are  you  sure  of  that,  darling?"  asked  the 
mother. 

"Oh,  because  lam  so  pretty,"  replied  the  spoiled 
child,  shaking  back  the  ringlets  from  her  bright  blue 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.          27 

eyes,  and  looking  archly  in  her  mother's  face.  "You 
know  every  body  says  I  am  pretty,  mamma,  and  that 
sister  is  ugly." 

"Yes — but  you  must  not  repeat  what  every  body 
says  before  your  uncle,  for  he  would  not  be  pleased 
if  he  thought  you  vain — and  you  must  be  very  polite 
and  affectionate  to  him — get  in  his  lap,  put  your  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  caress  him  a  great  deal.  You 
must  never  get  in  a  passion  before  him,  for  it  spoils 
your  looks ;  you  know,  my  dear,  you  are  too  apt  to 
do  it.  You  must  be  very  attentive  to  him  when  he  is 
speaking,  and  be  sure  iiever  to  contradict  him.  I 
recollect  it  always  displeased  him  to  be  interrupted  in 
conversation." 

"I  hope  he  will  not  stay  long,  if  I've  got  to  listen 
to  him  all  the  time,"  said  Clara,  "  for  I  know  he  must 
be  a  dry  old  thing." 

"You  will  not  think  a  million  of  dollars  dry,  one 
of  these  days,"  said  Hrs.  Dushane — "  but  never  mind, 
perhaps  he  will  leave  it  to  Effie." 

"To  Effie!"  exclaimed  Clara,  with  a  laugh  of 
derision.  "To  Effie!  the  ugly  thing?— Oh,  no!  I'm 
not  afraid  of  her.  You  see  if  I  don't  please  uncle, 
without  trying  very  hard  either." 

A  servant,  whose  chief  employment  was  to  wait 
upon  Clara,  was  full  two  hours  curling  her  hair  and 
arranging  her  dress,  before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Horton, 
and. when  the  business  of  the  toilette  was  over,  sho 
led  her  in  triumph  to  her  mother,  asking  her  "if 
Miss  Clara  did  not  look  like  a  perfect  angel  I" 


28  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

A  rapturous  kiss  on  her  roseate  cheek  was  an  ex- 
pressive answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"Oh!  mamma,  you  tumble  my  frock,"  cried 
little  belle,  in  a  pettish  tone.     "I  don't  love  to  be 


Shall  I  change  Miss  Effie's  dress?"  asked   the 
servant  as  she  was  leaving  the  room. 

"It's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mrs.  Dushane,  coldly: 
"she  needn't  come  into  the  room  to-night  I'm 
ashamed  my  brother  should  see  her,"  continued  she, 
•  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy;  "she  is  so  ugly,  and  awk- 
ward, and  wayward,  I  want  to  keep  her  out  of  hhr 
sighiras  long  as  possible." 

Mr.  Horton  had  not  been  more  than  a  week  with 
his  sister  before  he  discovered  that,  though  she  was 
the  nominal  head  of  the  establishment,  Miss  Clara 
was  the  real  one,  and  that  her  varying  whims  and 
caprices  were    the  laws   that  governed    the  whole 
household.    Effie  seldom  made  her  appearance,  and 
then  she  seemed  more  like  an  automaton  than  any 
thing  else;  never  displaying  any  trait  of  that  sensi- 
bility which  had  so  touched  her  uncle's  heart  the  first 
night  of  his  arrival.    When  company  was  present, 
Clara  was  summoned  to  the  piano  to  entertain  the 
guests    with    music,   which    she    had    been    taught 
almost  from  her  cradle;  or  she  was  called  upon  to 
display  her  graceful  little  figure  in  the  mazes  of  the 
hornpipe,   or  the  undulations   of  the   shawl   dance, 
which  her  master  said  she  executed  to  perfection. 

One  evening  Mr.  Horton  sat  reading  in  an  upper 
piazza  which  fronted  the  chamber  he  occupied.    It 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.          29 

was  shaded  by  luxurious  vines,  which  trailed  their 
flowery  tendrils  through  the  diamond  trellis-work 
and  excluded  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Embowered 
in  the  rich  shades,  he  sat  unseen,  enjoying  the  sweet- 
ness and  freshness  of  declining  day.  lie  heard  the 
voices  of  the  children  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  he 
oould  not  but  notice  that  Clara's  tones  wanted  some- 
thing of  the  dulcet  softness  of  her  parlour  accents. 
lie  had  scarcely  ever  heard  the  full  sound  of  Effie's 
voice,  and  he  now  listened  unconsciously  to  a  conver- 
sation which  promised  to  develope  her  character  to  a 
most  interested  auditor. 

"Don't,  Clara,  press  so  hard  against  this  geranium," 
said  Effie,  in  an  expostulating  tone;  "you  know 
mother  will  be  very  angry  if  it  is  broken." 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  Clara,  evidently  persisting 
in  her  conduct;  "she  will  not  be  angry  with  me." 

"But  she  will  with  me,"  said  Effie,  "for  I  have  the 
care  of  this  flower,  and  if  any  harm  happens  to  it, 
she  will  blame  me.  You've  brcken  off  several  leaves 
already." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  a  sudden 
and  vehement  exclamation  from  Effie  again  roused 
the  attention  of  Mr.  Ilorton. 

"Oh,  Clara,  see  what  you've  done!  The  most 
beautiful  branch  is  broken — and  you  did  it  on  pur- 
pose too  1" 

Clara  laughed  mockingly,  and  at  the  same  moment 
Mrs.  Dushane  was  heard  to  enter  the  apartment. 

"  Effie  I  Effie  1"  exclaimed  she  angrily,  "  what  have 
you  been  doing?  How  dare  you  break  that  gera- 


SO  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

mum,  when  I've  forbidden  you  to  touch  a  single  leaf 
of  it?" 

"I  didn't  break  it,  mother  1"  answered  Efiie.  "I 
wouldn't  have  broken  it  for  any  thing  in  the  world." 

"How  dare  you  deny  it,  when  you  are  holding  it 
in  your  own  hand,  you  good-for-nothing  little  thing?" 
cried  the  mother,  with  increasing  anger.  "  I  suppose 
you  want  to  make  me  think  that  Clara  broke  it — 
don't  you?" 

"Clara  did  break  it  I"  sobbed  Effie;  "she  knows 
sbe  did,  and  I  tried  to  keep  her  from  it." 

"  Oh  I  mamma,  I  didn't  do  any  such  thing !"  cried 
Clara,  with  the  boldness  of  innocence  itself— "you 
know  I  wouldn't." 

"I  could  forgive  you  for  breaking  the  flower," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dushane,  in  the  husky  voice  of  sup- 
pressed  passion,  "but  tell  such  another  lie  on  Clara, 
and  you  had  better  never  have  been  born." 

Mr.  Horton  started  from  his  seat  in  uncontrollable 
agitation,  dropped  his  book,  and  rushed  to  the  "open 
door  of  the  apartment  just  as  Effie,  smitten  by  a  vio- 
lent blow,  had  fallen  prostrate  to  the  floor,  her  hand 
still  grasping  the  broken  geranium,  whose  leaves  were 
scattered  around  her. 

"Clarinda!"  cried  Mr.  Horton,  sternly,  "unjust, 
unnatural  woman— what  have  you  done?" 

"She  is  a  liar,  brother,  and  I  struck  her.  She 
deserved  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Dushane,  pale  with 
anger. 

"She  is  not  a  liar,  and  I  know  it,"  answered  he,  in 
a  ral8ed  voice.  «  There  stands  the  liar !»  pointing  to 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  31 

the  now  terrified  and  guilty-looking  Clara.  "  1  heard 
every  thing  that  passed  between  them.  She  broke 
the  flower  wantonly,  purposely,  against  her  sister's 
prayers  she  broke  it,  and  then  basely  denies  it.  Kise, 
.my  poor  child,"  continued  he,  trying  to  lift  Kflie  from 
the  ground;  "you  shall  have  one  friend  to  protect 
you,  if  your  own  mother  casts  you  from  her." 

Effie  was  only  stunned  by  the  fall,  and  when  sho 
found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Ilorton,  she  struggled 
to  be  released. 

"Oh I  let  me  go,"  cried  she,  almost  frantically— 
"  sho  will  hate  me  worse  than  ever.  Oh  1  how  I  wish 
I  was  dead  1  how  I  wish  I  was  dead  !" 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  expression  of 
the  child's  large,  dilated  black  eyes,  as,  in  a  wild 
paroxysm  of  passion,  she  repeated  this  fearful  ejacu- 
lation. Mr.  Horton  shuddered,  but  he  only  held  her 
the  more  closely. 

"Clarinda,"  said  he,  solemnly,  "you  have  that  to 
answer  for  which  will  weigh  like  iron  upon  your  soul 
at  the  great  judgment  day.  What  has  this  poor, 
neglected  child  done,  that  you  treat  her  worse  than 
an  hireling,  and  lavish  all  your  affection  on  that 
selfish  and  unprincipled  girl  ?" 

'•Clara,"  said  her  mother,  "leave  the  room  instantly. 
This  is  no  place  for  you.  Why  do  you  net  obey 
me?" 

Clara  began  to  weep  bitterly,  but  her  mother  took 
her  by  the  hand,  and  leading  her  to  the  door,  gave  her 
in  charge  to  a  servant,  with  a  whispered  injunction 
not  intended  for  her  brother's  ear. 


32  COURTSHIP  ASV  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

"Now  let  that  child  go,"  said  she.     « If  I  am  to  be 
arraigned  for  my  conduct,  I  don't  want  any  li 
Effie,  follow  your  sister,  and  mind  that  there 
more  quarrelling." 

«  She  shall  not  go,"  cried  Mr.  Horton.  "  I  fear  tl 
there  is  no  safety  for  her  out  of  my  arms.  Clarinda, 
I  cannot  believe  the  cruel,  unjust,  and  unnatural 
mother  I  see  before  me,  is  the  sister  whom  I  remem- 
ber in  the  spring-time  of  the  heart's  feeling,  and  in 
the  gentleness  of  early  womanhood." 

"  Brother,  if  you  wish  me  to  speak,  let  that  child 
go.  I  will  not  be  humbled  before  her,  or  any  human 
being." 

"Yes,  let  me  go,"  said  Effie,  again  struggling.  "I 
don't  want  to  stay  here." 

"  One  question,  first,"  said  Mr.  Horton.  "Tell  me 
truly,  why  you  wished  yourself  dead  ?" 

"  Because  every  body  hates  me." 

"And  what  makes  you  think  every  body  hates 

you?" 

"Because  I  am  ugly,"  cried  the  child,  in  a  low, 
bitter  tone,  looking  darkly  and  sullenly  at  her  mother. 

"  /  will  love  you,  Effie,  if  you  are  good,  as  well  as  if 
you  were  my  own  child.  But  you  must  not  give  way 
to  such  violent  passions.  Be  gentle,  if  you  wish  to 
be  loved.  Be  gentle,  if  you  wish  to  be  beautiful." 

He  put  her  down  from  his  knee,  where  he  had 
seated  her,  and  motioned  that  she  might  depart. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  irresolute,  then  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  kissed  his  cheeks,  his 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  8& 

bands,  and  even  the  sleeves  of  his  garment,  in  a  most 
passionate  manner,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"  Oh !  Clarinda,"  cried  he,  greatly  moved,  "  what  a 
heart  you  are  throwing  away  from  you !" 

"To  me  she  has  always  been  sullen  and  cold,"  said 
Mrs.  Dushane;  "she  has  never  shown  me  any  affec- 
tion, but,  on  the  contrary,  the  greatest  dislike." 

"Because  the  fountain  of  her  young  affections  has 
been  frozen,  and  her  young  blood  turned  to  gall," 
replied  her  brother.  "She  has  been  brought  up  with 
the  withering  conviction  that  she  is  an  object  of 
hatred  and  disgust  to  those  around  her,  placed  in 
glaring  comparison  with  her  beautiful  sister,  treated 
like  a  menial,  her  dress  neglected,  her  manners  un- 
cultivated, :.;i-i  her  sensibilities  crushed  and  trodden 
under  foot.  Talk  about  her  affections !  You  might 
as  well  take  those  very  geranium  leaves,  and  grind 
them  with  your  heel,  till  you  have  bruised  out  all 
their  fragrance,  and  then  murmur  that  they  gave  you 
back  no  sweetness.  But  that  child  has  affections, 
warm,  glowing  affections,  though  you  have  never 
elicited  them — and  a  mind,  too,  though  you  have 
never  cultivated  it ;  but  if  God  grant  me  the  opportu- 
nity, I  will  take  possession  of  the  unweeded  wilderness 
of  her  heart  and  mind,  and  turn  it  into  a  blooming, 
domestic  garden  yet." 

Mrs.  Dushane  was  thunderstruck.  She  saw  in  pros- 
pective her  darling  Clara  disinherited,  and  she  knew 
not  yi  what  way  to  avert  the  impending  calamity. 

"  Brother,"  cried  she,  putting  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  "  you  are  strangely  altered.  You  used  tc 
2 


84  '     COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

love  me  once,  but  now  the  stranger  within  my  gates 
would  treat  me  with  more  kindness.  You  don't 
know  what  provocations  I  have,  or  you  would  not 
accuse  me  of  such  cruelty  and  injustice." 

"  You  forget,  Clarinda,  that  I  have  been  a  witness 
myself  of  your  injustice.  I  do  not  make  accusations, 
but  appeal  to  self-evident  truths — and  did  you  not 
suffer  Clara  to  depart,  without  once  rebuking  her  for 
her  falsehood  and  guilt  ?" 

"  Brother,  I  believe  you  hate  Clara." 
"  I  have  no  love  for  her  faults,  and  to  speak  the 
honest  truth,  I  never  liked  favourites.  From  the  time 
of  ancient  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colours,  which  excited 
the  envy  and  hatred  of  his  brethren,  to  our  days  of 
modern  refinement,  favouriteisrn  has  been  the  fruitful 
source  of  sin  and  sorrow,  and  oftentimes  of  blood  and 
death.  Do  not  accuse  me  of  unkindness,  Clarinda, 
because  I  speak  strongly  of  the  eviJs  you  have  caused. 
I  would  rouse  you  to  a  sense  of  your  danger,  and 
place  before  you,  in  all  their  length  and  breadth,  the 
sacred  duties  you  have  too  long  neglected." 

"I  may  have  been  wrong,"  cried  Mrs.  Dushane, 
apparently  softening;  "indeed,  I  know  I  have  been, 
but  I  never  could  govern  Effie  in  any  other  way  than 
by  severity.  She  is  the  most  singular  child  you  ever 
saw,  and  you  are  the  only  person  who  ever  seemed  to 
love  her.  You  remember,  brother,  when  I  was  a 
young  girl,  I  was  very  much  admired  for  my  beauty, 
and  perhaps  was  led  to  attach  an  undue  value  to  it. 
My  greatest  ambition  was  to  have  a  beautiful  infant, 
and  when  Effie  was  said  to  be  so  remarkably  ugly,  I 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  35 

could  not  help  it,  but  my  heart  seemed  steeled  against 
her;  and  she  was  a  very  cross  infant,  too,  and  cried 
day  and  night  I  could  hear  the  nurse  calling  her  a 
cross,  ugly  thing,  till  I  was  ashamed  to  have  her  in 
my  sight  Then  Clara  was  so  uncommonly  beautiful, 
and  such  a  sweet,  smiling,  bewitching  little  infant,  I 
could  not  help  idolising  her.  Every  body  called  her 
an  angel,  and  indeed  you  must  acknowledge  she  has 
the  beauty  of  one.  Then  she  is  so  affectionate  and 
loving.  You  don't  know  how  she  twines  around 
one's  heart.  To  be  sure,  she  was  very  wrong  just 
now,  very  wrong;  but  pray  forgive  her  this  one  fault. 
You  saw  how  bitterly  she  wept.  It  was  only  the 
dread  of  your  displeasure.  You  have  no  idea  how 
tenderly  she  loves  you.  Forgive  Clara,  for  my  sake, 
and  I  will  be  fcind  to  Effie  for  yours." 

"  For  your  own  sake,  my  beloved  sister,"  said  Mr. 
Horton,  seating  himself  by  her  side,  and  taking  her 
hand  affectionately  in  his.  "  The  consciousness  of  a 
fault,  is  one  step  to  reformation.  Only  cultivate  a 
mother's  feelings  for  Effie,  and,  believe  me,  you  will 
be  repaid  for  all  your  care." 

Late  that  evening,  as  Mr.  Horton  was  walking  pen- 
sively in  the  garden,  whose  walks  and  arbours  were 
partially  illumined  by  the  light  of  a  waning  moon,  he 
was  attracted  by  a  dark  object  under  one  of  the  trees. 
Supposing  it  some  animal,  which  had  gained  unlawful 
admittance,  he  approached  to  drive  it  from  the  en- 
closuje,  when  he  was  startled  by  the  appearance  of 
two  large  black  eyes  turned  upwards  to  the  heavens, 
flashing  out  from  a  cloud  of  gipsy-looking  hair. 


36  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

"Effie,"  cried  he,  "what  are  you  doing  here  so  late, 

and  alone  ?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  she,  springing  on  her  feet;  "I  was 
only  looking  at  the  moon  and  stars." 

"You  had  better  go  and  look  at  them  through 
your  bed- curtains,"  said  he,  passing  his  hand  over  her 
dew-damp  hair;  "it  is  time  for  little  girls  to  be  in  bed 
and  asleep." 

"  I  cannot  sleep  so  soon,"  said  the  child ;  "  I  think 
too  much,  and  I  wish  too  much." 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  so  much,  Effie  ?" 
"  Oh  I  I  wish  to  be  up  among  the  stars,  out  of  the 
way  of  every  body  here;  and  then  they  look  as  if  they 
love  me,  with  their  sweet,  bright  eyes." 

Mr.  Horton  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  slowly  and 
gently  along. 

"You  seem  to  want  to  be  loved,  Effie?" 
"  Oh !  yes,"  answered  she,  with  energy.    "  I  would 
die  to  be  loved  only  half  as  well  as  Clara." 

"  Well,  listen  to  me,  Effie,  and  I  will  tell  you  how 
you  may  be  loved  even  better  than  Clara.  You  must 
not  think  that  it  is  only  beautiful  persons  who  are 
loved." 

"But  they  hate  me  because  I  am  ugly,"  interrupted 
Effie. 

"You  are  not  ugly,  my  child,  and  as  you  grow 
older,  you  will  grow  handsomer.  But  you  must  for- 
get your  looks,  and  think  of  cultivating  your  mind 
and  heart.  You  must  try  to  be  loved  for  something 
better  than  beauty,  and  beauty  perhaps  will  come, 
without  thinking  of  it." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  37 

Effie  looked  up  to  him  with  a  smile  which  really 
had  a  beautifying  influence  on  her  face,  seen  by  that 
soft  moonlight. 

"  If  I  could  only  be  with  you  all  the  time,"  said  she, 
"I  should  be  happy." 

"  "Would  you,  indeed,  like  to  leave  your  home,  and 
come  and  live  with  me?" 

"  Would  I  ?"  cried  she,  suddenly  stopping — "  I 
would  walk  barefoot  to  the  end  of  the  universe;  I 
would  feed  on  bread  and  water  all  my  life,  if  I  could 
only  live  near  you." 

"  Perhaps  we  will  live  together  one  of  these  days," 
said  he,  smiling  at  her  enthusiasm,  "  but  I  will  pro- 
mise you  better  fare  than  bread  and  water.  And 
now,  good  night — and  God  bless  you,  my  own  dar- 
ling Effie !" 

Effie  retired  to  bed,  but  long  after  she  laid  her 
head  upon  her  pillow,  she  whispered  to  herself  the 
endearing  epithet,  which  had  melted  into  her  inmost 
heart.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  so 
fondly  addressed,  and  even  in  her  dreams  she  thought 
a  gentle  voice  was  murmuring  in  her  ear,  "  my  own 
darling  Effie!"  Oh!  how  sweet  to  the  neglected, 
lone-hearted  child,  was  the  language  of  sympathy  and 
love!  It  was  like  the  gurgling  fountain  in  the  arid 
desert — the  nightingale  in  the  dungeon's  solitude — 
the  gentle  gale  that  first  wakened  the  wild  music  of 
her  soul.  It  seemed  that  till  that  moment  there  had 
been  a  chill  weight  of  lead  in  her  bosom,  cold  and 
deadening,  but  that  it  was  now  fused  in  the  glowing 
warmth  of  love,  and  flowing  in  one  stream  of  affection, 


38  COURTSHIP  AND  MABMAGKJ  OB,  THE 

reverence,  gratitude,  and  almost  worship,  to  the  feet 
of  her  benefactor  and  friend. 

When  Mr.  Horton  proposed  to  his  sisl 
Effie  home  with  him,  she  could  not  disguise  her  rooi 
tification  and  displeasure.    Effie,  the  heiress  of 
uncle's  fortune,  to  the  exclusion  of  Clara,  was  a  ci 
cumstance  too  intolerable  to  be  endured. 
Effie  chosen  in  preference  to  the  beautiful  ( 
would  gladly  have  refused  the  request,  but  she  knew 
not  what  plea  to  urge  against  it.    She  had  herself 
acknowledged  her  unnatural  dislike  to  the  child,  and 
her  neglect  of  all  a  mother's  duties  towards  it  was  a 
too  evident  truth.    In  vain  she  sought  to  stifle  the 
voice  of  upbraiding  conscience.    It  would  be  heard, 
even  amidst  the  whirlwind  of  passion  that  raged  in 
her  breast.    Mr.  Horton's  determination  was  to  re- 
move Effie  as  far  as  possible  from  the  associations  of 
her  childhood,  to  place  her  at  school,  where  she  could 
have  every  opportunity  for  the  development  of  her 
talents,  and  the  discipline  of  her  character — and  then, 
if  she  fulfilled  his  hopes,  to  adopt  her  as  his  own,  and 
make  her  the  heiress  of  his  fortune,  and  the  inheritor 
of  his  name. 

Clara  was  outrageous  when  she  learned  the  new 
destiny  of  her  sister.  She  pouted,  wept,  and  stamped, 
in  the  impotence  of  her  wrath.  Effie  should  not  go 
home  with  her  uncle,  and  get  all  his  money,  a  whole 
million  of  dollars,  away  from  her.  She  didn't  want 
to  be  pretty  any  more.  She  wished  she  were  ugly. 
She  would  be  ugly,  if  it  were  only  to  spite  her 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  39 

mamma,  because  she  had  not  made  her  uncle  like  her 
better  than  Effie. 

Her  mother,  instead  of  soothing  and  petting  her 
with  the  halcyon  strains  of  flattery,  as  she  was  wont 
to  do  when  her  favourite  got  up  a  domestic  storm, 
now  vented  upon  her  the  anger  she  dared  not  mani- 
fest before  her  brother. 

"  It  was  your  own  fault,"  said  she,  "  you  spoiled, 
ungrateful  child ;  you  broke  my  geranium,  and  then 
meanly  lied  about  it.  You  had  better  not  wish  your- 
self ugly,  for  you  will  have  nothing  but  your  beauty 
to  depend  upon,  when  you  grow  up.  Not  a  cent  of 
money  will  you  have  for  a  fortune,  while  your  sister 
will  be  an  heiress  and — a  belle " 

"  I  don't  care,"  cried  Clara,  scornfully  pouting  her 
rose-leaf  lips.  "  I'll  be  a  belle  too  ;  and  I  don't  want  a 
fortune.  Til  marry  somebody  with  a  great  big  for- 
tune, and  you  shaVt  live  with  me,  either,  Madame 
Mamma." 

Clara's  appellation  for  her  mother,  in  moments  of 
passion,  was  "  Madame  Mamma ;"  and  Madame 
Mamma  began  to  feel  a  foretaste  of  the  anguish 
caused  by  that  "  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth,"  the 
tongue  of  a  thankless  child. 

Having  depicted  a  few  scenes  in  the  childhood  of 
the  two  sisters,  and  shown  the  different  influences, 
emanating  from  the  same  source,  which  operated  in 
the  characters  of  both,  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  may 
be  imagined,  and  those  who  have  become  interested 
in  the  ugly  Effie,  may  see  her  once  more  in  the  period 
of  adolescence — when  released  from  the  discipline  of  a 


40  COUBTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

school,  she  fills  a  daughter's  place  in  her   uncle's 
household.    The  mansion  of  Mr.  Horton  was  such  as 
became  his  princely  fortune.     It   was   on  a  lordly 
scale,  and  presented  an  elegance  of  architecture  and 
refinement  of  taste  unequalled  in  that  part  of  the 
country  where  he  resided.    It  was  shaded  on  all  sides 
by  magnificent  trees,  and  a  smooth  lawn  stretched  out 
in  front,  intersected  by  an  avenue  of  symmetrical 
poplars,   and   surrounded  by  a  hedge   of  perennial 
shrubs.     Underneath  one  of  the  trees  that  shadowed 
the  walls,  and  looking  out  on  this  rich,  velvet  lawn, 
sat  the  benevolent  owner  of  this  noble  establishment, 
whose  dignified  person  corresponded  well  with  the 
other  features  of  the  scenery.    A  young  girl  stood  near 
him,  holding  a  bow  in  her  left  hand,  and  watching 
the  motions  of  a  young  man,  who  was  feathering  an 
arrow  fitted  for  that  sylvan  bow.     Her  figure  had 
scarcely  attained  its  full  height,  but  it  had  all  the 
rounded  proportions  and  undulating  outlines  of  early 
womanhood.     Her  head,  covered  with  short   raven 
curls,  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  young  Greek,  but 
her  clear,  dark  complexion,  of  perfect  softness  and 
transparency,  assimilated  her  more  to  the  Creole  race. 
Her  features  were  not  regular  nor  handsome  in  them- 
selves, but  they  were  lighted  up  with  animation  and 
intellect,   and  illuminated   by   such   large,   splendid 
black  eyes,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  the 
most  fastidious  connoisseur  of  female  beauty  to  havo 
judged  them  with  any  severity  of  criticism.     From 
the  bow,  on   which  she   partly  leaned,   the   quiver 
suspended  over  her  shoulder,  the  wild  grace  of  her 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  41 

attitude,  and  the  darkness  of  her  complexion,  she 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  one  of  those  daughters 
of  the  forest  which  American  genius  has  so  often 
glowingly  described. 

"  That  will  do,  Dudley,"  said  she,  playfully  snatch- 
ing the  arrow,  and  fitting  it  to  her  bow;  "better  reserve 
some  of  your  skill  to  fledge  your  own  arrows,  fur  you 
know  I  can  shoot  like  Robin  Hood  himself.'' 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  the  trial  of  skill  com- 
menced. They  shot  alternately,  and  scarcely  had  the 
gleaming  arrow  darted  from  the  string,  than  they 
each  pursued  its  flight  over  the  lawn,  striving  for  the 
glory  of  first  reaching  the  fallen  missile.  At  last  the 
young  girl  hit  the  target  in  the  very  centre,  and  Mr. 
Horton  pronounced  her  the  victor. 

"You  must  surrender,  Dudley,"  said  he;  "there  is 
no  disgrace  in  yielding  to  Erne — as  swift  a  foot,  as 
true  an  eye,  and  as  steady  a  hand — 

"And  as  warm  a  heart,"  interrupted  she,  approach- 
ing him  with  a  cheek  to  which  exercise  had  given  a 
colour  like  the  coral  under  the  wave,  and  seating 
herself  on  the  grass  at  his  feet.  "  But  what  shall  be 
my  reward,  dear  uncle  ?  In  the  merry  days  of  the 
'Lion-hearted  King,'  the  victor  always  received  some 
crown,  or  trophy  of  his  skill  nr  valour." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Dudley  had  been  gather- 
ing some  of  the  flowers  and  perennial  leaves  of  the 
shrubbery,  and  had  woven  them  into  a  rustic  garland, 
which,  sportively  kneeling,  he  placed  upon  her 
brow. 

"I  suppose,  if  I  were  versed  in  the  language  of 


42  COTJKTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THJ 

chivalry,"  said  the  youth,  "I  should  address  you  as  the 
queen  of  love  and  beauty." 

"Berutyl"  repeated  Effie,  with  a  laugh  that  made 
the  green  walks  ring.  "  What  would  my  mother  and 
Clara  say  if  they  heard  such  an  appellation  given  to 
their  ugly  Effie?  You  needn't  look  so  mockingly, 
Dudley,  for  you  may  ask  my  uncle  if,  four  years  ago, 
I  wasn't  the  ugliest  little  gipsy  he  ever  beheld." 

"You  have,  indeed,  changed  most  marvellously, 
Effie,"  replied  he,  passing  his  hand  carelessly  over  the 
head  that  rested  against  his  knee;  "and  you  may 
thank  the  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air,  which  you 
have  been  compelled  to  take,  for  its  invigorating  and 
beautifying  influence." 

"  I  may  thank,  rather,  the  parental  tenderness,  the 
kindness,  and  the  care,  that  have  been  poured  like 
balm  into  a  bruised  and  wounded  heart,  healing  and 
purifying  it,  and  changing,  as  it  were,  the  very  life- 
blood  in  my  veins!"  exclaimed  Effie,  in  her  peculiarly 
impassioned  manner.  "  Do  you  remember  the  night 
when  you  found  me  under  the  sycamore  tree,  and 
called  me  your  own  darling  Effie  ?  From  that  moment  I 
date  a  new  existence — from  that  moment  life  became 
dear  to  me,  and  oh  1  how  dear,  how  very  dear  it  lias 
been  to  me  since !" 

Mr.  Horton  looked  down  upon  her  with  glistening 
eyes,  and  blessed  his  God  that  it  had  been  his  destiny 
to  appropriate  such  rich  treasures  of  intellect  and 
sensibility,  and  as  he  looked  on  the  fair  lands  stretch- 
ing around  him,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  blessed 
Him  again  that  he  could  now  leave  one  behind  him 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  43 

who  was  worthy  to  be  the  mistress  of  those  beautiful 
possessions.  There  was  another  pair  of  brighter, 
younger  eyes,  looking  down  upon  her,  and  wonder- 
ing if  it  were  possible  she  had  ever  been  called  the 
u  ugly  Effie."  Perhaps  she  read  his  thoughts,  for  she 
smilingly  said — 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  my  sister  Clara." 

"  Why  ?" 

"Because  she  is  so  exquisitely  fair — so  faultlessly 
beautiful." 

"  I  do  not  like  faultless  beauties,"  replied  he ;  "  they 
are  always  insipid.  I  do  not  like  blondes — they  have 
no  expression.  I  like  to  see  a  face  that  changes  with 
the  changing  feelings — now  dark,  now  bright,  like 
the  heavens  bending  above  us." 

"Do  you  think  your  mother  and  sister  would  know 
you,  Effie  ?"  asked  Mr.  Horton. 

"I  do  not  think  they  would,"  she  replied,  "for  I 
sometimes  hardly  recognize  myself.  I  should  like  to 
see  them  as  a  stranger,  to  see  what  impressions  I  might 
make.  When  shall  I  see  them,  dear  uncle  ?  Some- 
thing whispers  me  I  may  yet  be  blest  with  a  mother's 
and  a  sister's  love. " 

"  Are  you  not  happy  with  me  ?  Do  you  wish  to 
leave  me,  Effie?" 

"Never! — I  want  no  other  home  than  this.  But,  in 
looking  back,  I  blame  myself  so  much  for  the  sullen 
and  vindictive  feelings  I  once  dared  to  cherish.  I 
tried  so  little  to  deserve  the  love  which  was  not  spon- 
taneously bestowed,  I  long  to  prove  to  them  that  I  am 
now  not  ultrrlv  unworthv  of  their  rctrm!." 


44  COUETSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

"I  honour  your  wishes,"  said  Mr.  Horton,  kindly; 
"and  when  we  return  from  Europe  they  shall  be 
gratified.  Two  years  will  soon  pass  away.  You  will 
then  have  acquired  all  the  advantages  of  travelling  in 
classic  lands.  Dudley  will  have  completed  his  educa- 
tion in  the  German  universities,  and  in  the  freshness  of 
transatlantic  graces,  can  present  himself  to  your  fair 
sister,  whose  beauty  you  are  so  anxious  he  should  ad- 
mire. " 

Dudley  began  to  reiterate  his  detestation  of  blondes, 
but  Mr.  Horton  interrupted  him  to  discuss  more  im- 
portant matters. 

Dudley  Alston  was  a  ward  of  Mr.  Horton's,  the 
orphan  son  of  the  most  intimate  friend  of  his  youth. 
"When  his  father  died,  he  left  him  to  the  guardianship 
of  Mr.  Horton,  with  the  conditions  that  he  should 
finish  his  education  in  Europe,  and  that  he  should 
never  marry  without  the  consent  of  Mr.  Horton. 

Mr.  Alston  had  not  been  dead  more  than  a  year,  so 
that  Dudley  had  never  seen  EfBe  in  her  chrysalis  state. 
They  had  passed  together  their  last  vacation,  and  now 
again  met,  free  from  all  scholastic  restraints,  \vith 
spirits  buoyant  as  young  singing  birds,  converting 
the  still  home  of  the  widower  into  a  bright  scene  of 
youthful  exercise  and  hilarity.  Mr.  Horton  rejoiced 
in  the  circumstances  which  Jjad  thrown  so  closely 
together  these  two  congenial  beings  so  dear  to  his 
affections,  and  which  promised  to  draw  them  togethnr 
in  closer  and  more  endearing  union.  Dudley  was 
handsome,  intelligent,  and  high-spirited;  generous 
almost  to  prodigality;  unsuspicious  almost  to  ere- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.          45 

dulitj;  impulsive  and  uncalculating,  and  possessed 
of  an  independent  fortune,  free  from  any  of  those 
mortgages  and  encumbrances  which  so  often  neu- 
tralize the  property  of  reputed  heirs.  Where  could 
he  find  a  husband  for  Effie,  combining  so  many  rare 
endowments,  and  where  could  Dudley  find  a  being 
like  Erne,  with  a  soul  of  fire,  a  heart  of  love,  and  a 
person  which  he  now  thought  singularly  fascinating? 
lie  was  too  wise  to  speak  his  hopes,  but  he  thought 
it  as  impossible  that  their  hearts  should  not  grow 
together,  as  that  two  young  trees,  placed  side  by  side, 
should  not  interlace  their  green  boughs,  and  suffer 
their  trembling  leaves  to  unite.  He  wrote  occasional 
letters  to  his  sister,  and  received  from  her  cold  and 
brief  replies.  She  expatiated  chiefly  on  Clara's  extra- 
ordinary beauty,  and  lamented  her  limited  means  to 
introduce  her  to  the  world  as  she  would  wish — hoped 
that  Effie  was  improving,  but  declared  her  readiness 
to  take  her  home,  whenever  her  uncle  was  disgusted 
or  weary  of  his  charge.  Mr.  Ilorton  never  made 
known  to  her  the  astonishing  improvement  in  Effie's 
appearance,  for  he  wanted  to  dazzle  her  some  day 
with  the  sudden  lustre  of  the  gem  she  had  thrown 
from  her  heart.  He  always  mentioned  her  in  vague 
terms,  expressed  his  general  satisfaction  in  her  good 
conduct,  and  approbation  of  her  studious  habits.  "As 
nature  did  not  make  her  a  beauty,"  said  he,  "I  intend 
she  shall  be  a  scholar,  and  no  fear  of  her  being  called  a 
bos  bleu  shall  prevent  me  from  giving  her  a  thoroughly 
classical  education.  She  is  already  familiar  with  Greek 


46  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

and  Latin,  and  during  our  European  travels,  she  shall 
become  mistress  of  all  the  modern  languages." 

"  Oh !  there  is  nothing  so  disgusting  as  a  pedantic 
woman!"  exclaimed  Clara,  with  a  shudder,  as  her 
mother  finished  the  perusal  of  the  letter.  "  I  know 
French  and  Italian  enough  to  sing  all  the  fashionable 
songs  and  repeat  all  the  common  quotations,  and  that 
is  all  a  young  lady  requires.  As  for  Greek  and 
Latin,  I  detest  their  very  idea.  But  poor  Effie  needs 
something  to  distinguish  her,  even  besides  her  uncle's 
fortune.  I  wonder  if  she  is  as  ugly  as  ever,  /should 
really  like  to  see  her." 

"  So  should  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Dushane,  with  an  in 
voluntary  sigh,  for  there  were  moments  when  nature 
spoke  in  her  heart,  and  she  had  become  convinced, 
from  her  own  fatal  experience,  that  there  were  other 
qualities  necessary  in  a  daughter  besides  personal 
beauty.  There  were  times  "when  the  whole  head 
was  sick,  and  the  whole  heart  faint,"  when  she  would 
have  welcomed  a  filial  hand  to  bathe  her  temples,  or 
hold  her  aching  brow,  even  though  it  were  the  hand 
of  her  neglected  child.  There  were  times  when  the 
rebellious  will,  the  selfish  vanity,  the  careless  disre- 
spect, or  bold  defiance  of  the  spoiled  favourite,  made 
her  feel  as  if  Heaven's  retribution  might  be  felt  in 
this  world.  At  others,  when  she  saw  her  caressed 
and  admired,  and  heard  herself  envied  as  the  mother 
of  such  a  paragon,  she  tried  to  convince  herself  that 
disobedience  and  ill-humour  were  only  slight  flaws  in 
this  matchless  diamond,  which  it  would  be  invidious  to 
dwell  upon.  She  had  had  no  communication  with  her 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  47 

brother  during  his  residence  in  Europe,  and  believing 
that  all  intercourse  with  him  vould  now  probably 
cease,  and  that  there  was  no  hope  of  his  substituting 
Clara  for  Effie,  she  became  more  and  more  anxious  to 
secure  for  the  former  an  establishment  worthy  of  her 
charms.  Clara  was  now  before  the  world  as  an  ac- 
knowledged belle,  occupying  that  place  in  society  for 
which  she  had  been  solely  calculated,  and  which  she 
had  been  made  to  believe  a  part  of  her  birthright. 

One  evening,  Mrs.  Dushane  accompanied  her 
daughter  to  the  house  of  a  lady  who,  being  a  great 
amateur  in  music,  was  very  fond  of  giving  concerts. 
Clara,  as  a  beauty,  and  a  brilliant  performer,  was 
always  invited.  This  evening,  the  lady  told  Clara  to 
look  her  prettiest,  and  do  her  prettiest,  as  a  young 
lady  was  to  be  present — a  stranger,  just  arrived  in 
town — who  was  said  to  have  most  remarkable  and 
fascinating  accomplishments.  Clara's  vain  and  eager 
eye  ran  over  the  crowd,  in  search  of  one  who  would 
have  the  hardihood  to  rival  her.  She  had  scarcely 
assured  herself  that  there  were  none  but  familiar  faces 
around  her,  when  the  lady  of  the  house  approached 
and  begged  permission  to  introduce  her  to  Miss 
Horton,  the  young  lady  whose  coming  she  had  an- 
nounced. The  company  fell  back  as  the  hostess  led 
Clara  and  her  mother  through  the  folding  doors,  to 
the  centre  of  another  apartment,  where  a  young  lady 
stood  beneath  the  full  blaze  of  the  chandeliers,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  young  and  distinguished-looking 
stranger.  Clara  gazed  intently  on  the  form  of  this 
rival  beauty,  and  a  feeling  of  relieved  self-complacency 


48  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

dimpled  the  roses  of  her  cheeks.  Those  on  whom 
nature  has  lavished  her  living  lilies  and  carnations, 
are  very  apt  to  depreciate  the  charms  of  those  whose 
pretensions  to  loveliness  are  based  on  other  attributes 
than  mere  beauty  of  complexion.  That  of  the  young 
stranger  was  what  Clara  called  dark,  and  it  might 
have  appeared  so,  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  white- 
ness of  her  own,  but  it  had  that  oriental  delicacy  and 
transparency  so  seldom  found  except  in  eastern  climes. 
Her  eyes  were  so  dark  and  resplendent  that  their 
brightness  would  have  been  almost  overpowering  had 
they  not  been  softened  by  long,  sweeping  lashes,  of  the 
same  jetty  hue  as  her  luxuriant  and  shining  hair. 
Her  figure  was  exquisite  in  repose,  and  from  its 
waving  outline  promised  that  grace  of  motion  which 
is  more  pleasing  than  beauty  itself.  There  was  no- 
thing conspicuous  in  her  dress  save  a  small  diamond 
star  that  sparkled  amid  the  darkness  of  her  tresses, 
like  a  lone  planet  on  "  night's  ebon  brow."  The  gen- 
tleman on  whose  arm  she  leaned — ah, 

"Not  his  the  form,  not  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly." 

Clara  marked  him  as  her  victim,  and  met  his  ex- 
ceedingly earnest  gaze  with  a  glance  of  soR  allure- 
ment. The  young  lady,  whose  air  and  appearance 
betrayed  familiarity  with  the  most  elegant  and  fash- 
ionable society,  nevertheless  manifested  Ho  small 
degree  of  embarrassment  while  passing  through  the 
customary  forms  of  introduction.  She  coloured 
and  her  eyes  were  bent  down  with  an  ex- 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN   LIFE.  49 

pression  of  modesty  and  humility  entirely  unexpected 
from  her  previous  bearing. 

"  Ilorton  1"  repeated  Mrs.  Dushane,  when  her  name 
was  announced  ;  "  I  have  a  brother  of  that  name  now 
in  Europe.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  him, 
however,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  have  pleasing  associations 
connected  with  me,  madam,"  said  Miss  Ilorton,  in  a 
sweet,  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Dushane,  who  was  prepared  to  wage  warfare 
with  one  who  might  rival  her  daughter,  could  not 
help  feeling  the  charm  of  such  affability  and  sweet- 
ness. She  wondered  who  the  Mr.  Alston  was,  who 
accompanied  her,  but,  notwithstanding  his  juxtapo- 
sition with  the  attractive  stranger,  she  could  not  but 
hope  that  he  was  the  rich  and  distinguished  individual 
heaven  had  destined  for  her  favourite  child. 

Music  was  the  order  of  the  evening,  and  Clara  was 
led  to  the  piano,  Miss  Ilorton  declining  to  play  first. 
Being  from  early  childhood  accustomed  to  sing  and 
play  in  public,  she  had  no  faltering  of  modesty,  to 
mar  the  brilliancy  of  her  execution.  She  sang  and 
played  as  she  did  every  thing  else,  for  effect — and  it 
was  generally  such  as  the  most  exacting  vanity  could 
desire.  Mr.  Alston  and  Miss  Ilorton  stood  near  her, 
and  evinced,  by  their  silent  attention,  the  most  flat- 
tering interest  in  the  beautiful  songster. 

"  And  now,   Miss    Ilorton,"   cried   the    impatient 
hostess — and  "Miss  Ilorton"  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  as  the  circle  pressed  and  narrowed  around  her 
— "  Perhaps  Miss  Horton  would  prefer  the  harp  ?" 
3 


50  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OB,   THE 

"She  too*  more  accustomed  to  the  harp,"  she  re- 
plied,  and  a  splendid  instrument  was  drawn  towar 


ner. 


;r.  .    «  /» . 

Clara  was  no  proficient  on  the  harp,  having,  ID 
of  obstinacy,  given  up  her  lessons,  because  the  c 
blistered  her  delicate  fingers.    She  felt  a  thrill 
envy,  as  she  beheld  Miss  Horton  seat  herself 
fully  before  the  lyre,  such  as  the  "shepherd  monarcl 
once  swept,"  and  pass  her  white  hands  over  1 
strings.    At  first  her  touch  was  soft,  and  her  voio 
low,  and  she  looked  at  Clara  as  if  deprecating  her 
criticism;  but,  after  awhile,  she  looked  at  no  one- 
she  thought  of  nothing  but  the  spirit  of  music  that 
filled  her  soul,  thrilled  through  her  nerves,  flowed  in 
her  veins,  and  burned  upon  her  cheek.    There  was  no 
affectation    in  her  manner— there  was    enthusiasm, 
sensibility,  fire— but  it  was  the  fire  from  within,  illu- 
minating the  temple,  which  its  intensity  sometimes 
threatened  to  destroy.    It  is  true,  she  once  or  twice 
raised  her  glorious  black  eyes  to  heaven,  but  it  was 
because  music  naturally  lifted  her  thoughts  to  heaven, 
and  her  glance  followed  its  inspiration. 

"Are  you  not  weary?"  asked  Clara,  after  she  had 
again  and  again  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  her  audi- 
tors to  give  them  another  and  yet  another  strain. 

"  No,"  answered  she,  rising ;  "  but  I  must  not  forget 
that  others  may  be,  notwithstanding  their  apparent 
sympathy  with  an  enthusiast  like  myself." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Delamere,"  cried  Clara,  addressing  a 
pale,  pensive,  and  intellectual  gentleman,  who  had 
stood,  as  if  spell-bound,  by  the  harp,  "  do  not  look  so 


JOY3  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.          51 

reproachfully  at  me;  I  did  not  think  of  putting  a  stop 
to  your  ecstasy." 

"You  arc  right,"  said  he,  drawing  a  deep  inspira- 
tion; "I  was  forgetting  the  mortal  in  the  im- 
mortal." 

"  Oh !  that  we  all,  and  always  could !"  exclaimed 
Miss  Horton;  "but  those  who  speak  of  immortality 
in  a  scene  like  this,  must  be  singularly  bold." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  more  in  keeping  by  that 
window,  which  looks  out  upon  the  magnificence  of  an 
evening  sky,"  answered  Mr.  Delamere,  with  a  smile  so 
winning,  she  could  not  but  yield  to  the  invitation; 
and,  seated  in  a  curtained  embrasure,  which  admitted 
the  fresh  night  breeze,  she  soon  found  she  was  with  a 
companion  to  whom  she  was  not  ashamed  to  commu- 
nicate her  most  glowing  thoughts,  for  she  "  received 
her  own  with  usury."  He  had  travelled  over  many 
lands — over  the  countries  from  which  she  had  just 
returned — and  she  felt  as  if  she  heard  once  more  tho 
song  of  the  Alpine  peasant,  the  rich  strains  of  the 
Italian  improvisatore,  or  beheld  again  the  sublime 
and  storied  scenes  so  vividly  impressed  upon  her 
memory.  But,  at  times,  her  abstracted  eye  told 
of  other  subjects  of  contemplation.  She  thought 
of  the  mother  whose  unkiudness  had  embittered  her 
childhood,  now  smiling  unconsciously  on  her  neg- 
lected offspring,  and  she  longed  to  throw  herself 
on  her  neck,  and  ask  her  to  forget  the  past,  and 
welcome  back  her  no  longer  ugly  Effie.  She  looked 
ut  her  sister,  on  whose  angelic  face  evil  passions  had 
left  no  more  trace  than  the  rough  bark  on  the 


62  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  TIIK 

glassy  wave,  and,  forgetting  the  scorn  and  contumely 
she  had  heaped  upon  her  in  the  first,  dark  portion 
of  her  life,  she  yearned  to  embrace  her,  to  press  to, 
her  own  those  smiling  lips,  and  call  her  by  the  sweet 
name  of  sister. 

"Not  yet,"  said  she  to  herself;  "I  have  promised 
my  uncle  to  shine  before  them  a  little  while,  at  least 
till  I  have  won  their  admiration  as  a  stranger,  and 
triumphed  as  another,  ere  I  allow  them  to  recognize 
in  me  the  hated  and  ugly  Erne." 

Surprised  at  her  silence,  Mr.  Delamere  watched  her 
thoughtful  and  varying  countenance  with  an  interest 
that  surprised  himself.  His  early  history  was  roman- 
tic. In  the  very  dawn  of  manhood  he  had  formed  an 
attachment  for  a  fragile  and  lovely  young  creature, 
who  expired  suddenly  on  the  very  morning  of  her 
nuptial  day,  and  whose  white  bridal  wreath  was 
placed  upon  the  shroud  that  mantled  her  virgin 
bosom.  Delamere,  in  the  anguish  of  so  awful  a  be- 
reavement, secluded  himself  long  from  the  world, 
which,  to  him,  seemed  covered  with  a  funereal  pall, 
and  devoted  himself  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  But, 
at  length,  the  solicitations  of  friendship,  the  energies 
of  youth,  and  the  strong  necessity  of  social  life,  drew 
him  back  to  the  scenes  which  he  had  once  frequented, 
chastened  by  sorrow,  enriched  by  experience,  the  his- 
tory of  the  past  written  on  his  pallid  cheek,  and 
speaking  from  his  pensive  eye.  No  wonder  that  the 
music  of  Erne's  voice  had  thrilled  through  a  heart 
whose  strings  had  once  been  so  rudely  broken,  lie 
felt  for  the  young  songstress  a  most  painful  interest, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.          53 

for  he  saw  she  was  one  born  to  feel  and  to  suffer ; 
for  when  were  deep  feeling  and  suffering  ever  dis- 
united ? 

"  Is  not  Clara  beautiful,  Dudley  ?"  asked  Effic,  the 
morning  after  the  sisters  met.  "Is  she  not  beautiful 
as  the  dreams  of  imagination  ?" 

"She  is,  indeed,  most  exquisitely  fair,'1  answered 
he;  "she  has  almost  conquered  my  prejudices  against 
blondes.  But  she  is  no  more  to  be  compared  to  you, 
Kffie,  than  a  clear,  cloudless  day  is  to  a  starry,  re- 
splendent night 

'  Tko*  walk'ft  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudiest  climes  and  starry  ekies.'  * 

"Don't  flatter  me,  Dudley,"  cried  she  impatiently; 
"  I  know  its  exact  value,  which  few  girls,  so  young 
as  myself,  can  say.  Let  there  be  nothing  but  truth 
and  sincerity  between  us.  Now  is  the  time  to  prove 
whether  the  love  you  bear  me  is  the  result  of  habit 
and  association,  or  that  passion  which  would  have 
selected  me  for  its  object,  though  \\  e  had  been  here- 
tofore sundered  as  far  as  from  pole  to  pole.  Unfor- 
tunately, my  uncle's  wishes  are  known  to  both  of  us, 
revealed  in  an  unguarded  moment.  To  me,  I  ac- 
knowledge, his  slightest  wish  is  a  law,  and  you  know 
my  heart  has  not  murmured  at  his  will." 

She  blushed,  and  averted  her  eyes,  which  she  was 
conscious  expressed  in  still  stronger  language  the 
feelings  she  was  uttering. 

"  What  is  it  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  he  vehemently. 
"  Do  you  doubt  my  truth  and  constancy,  when,  from 


54  COURTSHIP  AND  MAERIAGE;   OR,  THE 

the  first  moment  I  beheld  you,  I  have  scarcely  had  a 
thought  or  wish  which  has  not  been  cntwm- 
you?    You  were  the  star  of  my  boyhood,  you  are  the 
cynosure  of  my  manhood,  and  age  will  brir 
change.    No,  it  is  for  me  to  doubt-not 

While  this  conversation  was  passing  bctwee 
at  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Horton  had  put  up,  incog.,  for 
the  purpose  already  explained,  Mrs.  Dushane  i 
Clara  were  expatiating  on  tho  young  stranger  wh< 
had  flashed  across  their  path  the  preceding  evening. 

"I  do  not  think  her  really  handsome,  mother,"  said 
Clara ;  "she  is  not  fair  enough  for  that.  She  reminded 
me  of  some  one  whom  I  have  seen  before,  but  I  cannot 
think  who  it  is." 

"It  is  the  same  case  with  me,"  said  her  mother; 
have  been  trying  to  think  who  she  is  like,  but  in  vain. 
She  certainly  created  a  great  sensation,  and  she  was 
very  affable  and  polite  to  me.  How  I  wish  you  had 
not  given  up  the  harp,  Clara  I  It's  a  thousand  times 
more  graceful  an  instrument  than  the  piano.  It  was 
nothing  but  yo'ir  waywardness.  I  told  you  you 
would  repent  of  it  some  day." 

"  If  I  did  play  on  the  harp,"  said  Clara,  pettishly, 
"  I  wouldn't  put  myself  into  such  ecstasies  at  my  own 
music,  as  she  did.  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Alston  admires 
her  singing  much,  for  he  talked  to  me  almost  the 
•vrhole  time." 

"  Yes,  because  you  talked  to  him.  But,  seriously, 
Clara,  he  is  a  fine-looking  young  man,  and  may  be 
very  rich.  You  had  better  try  to  captivate  him,  even 
if  he  is  already  captivated  by  Miss  Horton.  IIow 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  55 

familiar  that  name  docs  sound!  We  must  invite  them 
to  our  house — make  a  party  for  them — for  they  evi- 
dently are  persons  of  distinction." 

"Not  a  musical  party,  mother.  One  good  thing, 
however,  we  have  no  harp  here." 

The  party  was  given,  and  Erne  crossed  once  more, 
with  unconquerable  emotions,  the  threshold  of  her 
childhood's  home.  She  entered  the  drawing-room, 
followed  by  a  train  of  obsequious  admirers,  and  re- 
ceived by  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  with  all  the 
pomp  and  ceremony  of  fashionable  politeness.  She 
was  magnificently  dressed,  for  it  was  her  uncle's 
pleasure  that  she  should  be  so,  and  Clara  felt,  with 
envy  and  bitterness,  that  she  was  eclipsed  by  this 
splendid  stranger. 

"I  will  win  Alston,  if  I  die,"  ejaculated  she  to  her- 
self: "for  I  know  she  loves  him,  and  it  will  be  such  a 
triumph  1" 

Monopolized  as  Erne  was,  with  Delamere  flitting  a 
pensive  shadow  at  her  side,  it  was  difficult  for  Dudley 
Alston  to  claim  any  portion  of  her  attention.  It  was 
therefore  an  easy  task  for  Clara  to  monopolize  him. 
She  laid  aside  her  frivolity,  veiled  her  vanity,  and 
taxed  her  mind  to  the  fullest  extent  of  its  powers,  to 
interest  and  amuse  him.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  tact, 
and  could  talk  with  a  fluent  tongue,  while  the  love- 
liest smiles  gaTe  a  charm  to  the  words  she  uttered. 
Dudley  could  not  help  being  pleased  with  this  flat- 
tering attention.  He  knew  from  Mr.  Ilorton  that  she 
was  a  spoiled  and  unamiable  child,  and  was  prepared 
to  dislike  and  avoid  her,  but  he  could  not  believe 


56  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE ;  OB,  THE 

aught  but  gentleness  now  dwelt  in  abreast  so  fair. 
Effie  had  entreated  him  to  endeavour  to  think  favou 
ably  of  Clara,  forgetting  her  childish  foibles,  and 
her  sake  he  ought  to  do  it.     Mrs.  Dushane  was  mon 
and  more  delighted  with  Miss  Horton,  for  nothing 
could  be  more  deferential  than  her  manners  towar 
her.    She  sought  her  conversation,  and  turned  from 
all  her  admirers,  whenever  she  had  an  opportunity  of 
addressing  her.    Mrs.  Dushane  could  hardly  with- 
draw her  eyes  from  her  face.    That  haunting  resem- 
blance I    It  vexed  and  pained  her.    Once,  moved  by 
a  sudden  reminiscence,  she  whispered  to  Clara— 

"  It  is  the  most  ridiculous  thing  I  ever  knew— and 
yet  there  is  something  about  Miss  Ilorton  that  really 
makes  me  think  of  our  Effie." 

"  Shocking  I"  exclaimed  Clara,  laughing  outright. 
"What  would  Miss  Ilorton  say,  if  she  knew  you  com- 
pared her  to  such  a  thing  as  Effie  ?" 
Alston  caught  the  name  of  Effie. 
"  You  were  speaking  of  some  one  by  the  name  of 
Effie,"  said  he.    "I  have  always  admired  it  since  I 
read  the  Heart  of  Midlothian.    Is  the  Effie  to  whom 
you  allude,  as  beautiful  as  the  lily  of  St.  Leonard's?" 

"Oh  no — it  is  my  own  sister,  whom  my  uncle 
adopted,  and  who  is  now  in  Europe  with  him.  She  is 
very  far  from  being  pretty." 

"Indeed,"  said  he,  "is  that  possible,  and  your 
sister,  too?  Does  she  not  resemble  you  in  the 
least?" 

"No,"  answered  she,  with  a  shiver  of  disgust. 
"She  is  lean,  swarthy,  and  almost  deformed.  But 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.          67 

uncle  will  give  her  a  large  fortune,  and  that  -will  make 
up  for  her  defects." 

"Perhaps  she  has  improved  since  you  saw  her 
last,"  said  Dudley,  and  he  could  not  help  casting  an 
admiring  glance  towards  Eflie,  whose  graceful  head 
was  at  that  moment  turned  towards  her  mother — in 
the  act  of  listening.  Effie  had  been  praising  the 
beauty  of  Clara,  and  asked  if  she  were  an  only 
daughter. 

"No — I  have  one  beside,"  answered  Mrs.  Dushane, 
in  a  confused  manner;  "but  she  lives  with  her  uncle, 
who  has  adopted  her." 

"Is  it  long  since  you  have  seen  her,  madame?" 

"Oh!  yes — she  was  a  little  child  when  he  took  her, 
and  now  she  is  a  young  lady." 

"If  she  was  as  beautiful  as  her  sister,  I  should 
think  you  would  long  to  see  her,"  said  Effie. 

"She  wasn't  to  be  compared  to  Clara:  indeed,  she 
was  as  ugly  as  her  sister  is  pretty  I" 

"Poor  girl!"  cried  Effie;  "I  hope  you  did  not  love 
her  less  because  Nature  denied  the  gift  of  beauty  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  stammered  Mrs.  Dushane :  "  one  can't 
help  their  looks.  But  hers  were  uncommon." 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  know  her  now,  after  so 
long  an  absence  ?' 

"  Yes — I  should  know  her  any  where.  She  looked 
like  nobody  in  the  world  but  herself." 

A  half-suppressed  sigh,  which  followed  these  words, 
sounded  in  Effie's  ear  like  the  music  of  the  spheres.  She 
unconsciously  echoed  it,  and  it  was  echoed  yet  again, 
for  the  pensive  Delamere  was  lingering  by  her  side, 


58  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

and  this  token  of  sensibility  interested  him  more  than 
all  the  brilliancy  of  her  attractions. 

"Can  she  have  known  sorrow?"  thought  he.  The 
next  self-interrogation  was— "Has  she  known  love? 
And  oh!  how  ardently,  how  devotedly,"  thus  con- 
tinued his  meditations,  "such  a  being  must  love  I 
Would  she  accept  the  reins  of  a  heart  once  impas- 
sioned as  her  own  ?  Would  she  mingle  the  unfaded 
blossoms  of  her  youth  with  the  dark  cypress  and 
melancholy  yew  ?" 

Effie,  touched  by  the  soft  gloom  that  hung  like  a 
cloud  around  him,  lent  a  more  than  willing  ear  to  his 
conversation.  But,  while  she  listened  to  him,  her 
thoughts  often  wandered  to  one  whom  Clara  kept 
ever  near  her,  and  on  whom  her  eyes  turned  with  an 
expression  of  unequivocal  admiration.  A  pang  shot 
through  her  heart,  such  as  but  one  passion  can  inflict 
Then  another  succeeded,  that  she  was  capable  of  yield- 
ing to  such  an  emotion. 

"  If  he  be  not  mine,  wholly  mine,  heart,  soul  and 
life,  I  will  resign  him,  though  I  die  in  the  effort," 
was  the  language  of  the  maiden's  soul.  Her  love  had 
hitherto  flowed  on,  a  clear,  unruffled  stream,  rising  in 
the  green  hills  of  adolescence,  its  channels  margined 
with  flowers,  and  its  current  gilded  by  the  sunbeams. 
Now  the  waters  were  becoming  troubled,  for  they 
were  rolling  over  a  rocky  bed.  Did  the  rocks  betoken 
that  a  whirlpool  was  near,  and  was  the  frail  bark  of 
her  happiness  to  be  wrecked  in  its  vortex  ? 

One  morning,  when  the  demon  of  ill-temper,  roused 
by  some  petty  disappointment,  had  full  possession 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  59 

of  Clara,  and  proud  Mrs.  Dushane,  as  usual,  was  the 
victim  of  its  inflictions,  a  letter  came  from  Mr.  Ilorton, 
announcing  his  return  from  Europe,  and  his  inten- 
tion of  visiting  her  immediately,  with  his  adopted 
daughter.  This  annunciation  could  not  have  been 
made  at  a  moment  more  propitious  for  Efiie ;  for  her 
spirit  was  chafed  and  smarting  from  the  ungrateful 
conduct  of  Clara.  She  sat,  however,  like  one  in  a 
trance,  for  she  was  ashamed  and  perplexed  in  what 
manner  to  receive  her  long-estranged  daughter.  An 
acknowledged  heiress,  fresh  from  the  courts  of  Europe, 
was  a  being  of  some  consequence,  no  matter  how  ugly 
she  might  be. 

"Poor  Effie!"  exclaimed  she;  "I  did  treat  her 
shamefully,  and  all  for  the  most  selfish  and  passionate 
of  human  beings,  with  nothing  on  earth  to  recommend 
her  but  a  little  beauty,  of  which  I  am  getting  heartily 
sick." 

" Oh !  Madame  Mamma"  cried  Clara,  who  still  re- 
tained some  of  the  deeply  respectful  language  of  her 
childhood;  "it  is  too  late  to  sing  that  song;  you  are 
ten  times  more  vain  of  me  than  I  am  of  myself.  If  I 
am  vain,  you  taught  me  to  be  so ;  if  I  am  passionate, 
you  set  me  the  example.  '  It  won't  do  for  folks  that 
live  in  glass  houses  to  throw  stones.'  But,  good 
heavens,  what  shall  we  do  with  Effie,  at  all  these  fine 
parties  they  are  making  for  Miss  Horton?  Oh!  I 
forget  she  can  talk  Greek  and  Latin,  and  French,  and 
Italian.  She  is  a  learned  lady,  and  will  put  me  quite 
in  the  shade.  An  heiress,  tool  Perhaps  Dudley 
Alston  will  fall  in  love  with  her.  What  in  the  world 


60  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

shall  I  say  to  her?    I  declare  I  never  felt  so  strango 
about  any  thing  in  my  life." 

«  You  had  better  treat  her  kindly,  if  it  is  only  fi 
policy,  Miss  Clara,  for,  though  you  deserve  it  not,  she 
may  share  her  fortune  with  you— for  I  remember  well 
the  poor  thing  was  generous  to  a  fault  1" 

Clara,  upon  reflection,  concluded  to  act  upon  this 
hint,  and  she  began  to  think  too  that  it  would  be  a 
delightful  thing  to  have  Effie  near,  as  a  foil  to  her  own 
beauty.  She  would  shine  still  brighter  iu  the  dark, 
beaming  eyes  of  Dudley  Alston. 

Mrs.  Dushane  felt  in  a  state  of  trepidation  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  The  sound  of  carriage  wheels 
made  her  start,  and  change  colour.  The  sudden 
opening  of  the  door  made  her  heart  beat  almost  to 
suffocation. 

"Oh!  how  I  wish  it  were  overl"  she  would  say. 
"  If  I  only  knew  how  she  felt  towards  me,  I  should  be 
easy.  If  I  only  knew  how  she  looked  1  She  can't 
help  being  ugly,  though." 

About  the  twilight  hour,  the  carriage  of  Mr.  Horton 
did  indeed  roll  up  to  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Dushane  be- 
held her  brother  descend  with  a  veiled  lady  clinging 
to  his  arm.  A  large  shawl  wrapped  her  figure,  though 
the  weather  did  not  seem  to  require  such  a  protection. 
Even  when  she  entered,  they  could  see  nothing  of  her 
face  through  the  thick  green  veil  that  covered  it. 

"Ugly  still!"  thought  Clara,  "or  she  would  not 
take  such  pains  to  hide  herself." 

"  I  have  brought  you  back  a  daughter,"  said  Mr. 
Horton,  after  embracing  his  sister  and  Clara;  "but 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  61 

remember,  my  sister,  if  you  place  the  least  value  on  a 
brother's  love,  not  to  wound  her  feelings  again,  with 
regard  to  her  personal  deficiencies.  She  comes  to 
you  a  good,  affectionate  and  intelligent  girl,  who 
cherishes  no  vindictive  feelings  for  the  past,  and 
who  is  anxious  to  show  you  all  the  tenderness  of  a 
child." 

"Only  promise  to  love  me,  my  mother,  half  as  well 
as  you  do  Clara,"  said  Effie,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
throwing  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck  anil 
leaning  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  "  and  I  will  not  ask 
for  more." 

Mrs.  Dushane,  completely  overcome  by  this  unex- 
pected softness  and  humility,  pressed  the  veiled 
figure  of  her  child  to  her  heart,  and  wept  and  sobbed 
till  her  brother  led  her  to  a  seat,  and  calmed  her 
agitation. 

"And  you  too,  my  sister,"  cried  the  same  sweet, 
tremulous  voice ;  "  let  us  henceforth  love  one  an- 
other." 

Clara  returned  the  embrace,  with  a  semblance  of 
warmth,  but  she  was  dying  with  curiosity  to  look 
under  the  green  veil  and  the  muffling  shawl.  She 
saw  with  surprise,  however,  that  the  hand  which 
clasped  hers,  was  of  exquisite  delicacy  and  symmetry, 
soft  and  jewelled  as  her  own. 

"Let  me  take  off  your  bonnet  and  shawl,"  said  she; 
"you  must  be  very  warm." 

The  servant  at  this  moment  entered  with  lights, 
thus  dispersing  the  shades  of  twilight  which  lingered 
in  the  room.  Effie  first  gave  the  shawl  into  Clara's 


62  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

eager  hand,  revealing  by  the  act  the  full  outlines  of  her 
splendid  figure;  then  throwing  off  the  bonnet  and 
veil,  and  shaking  back  her  jetty  ringlets,  she  turned 
and  knelt  at  her  mother's  feet. 

"Behold  your  Effie!"  exclaimed  she— "no  longer 
sullen  and  unloving,  and  I  trust  no  longer  ugly.  My 
dear  uncle  was  determined  you  should  admire  me, 
before  you  knew  my  identity,  so  you  must  forgive  me 
for  having  appeared  in  masquerade.  Having  assumed 
his  honoured  name,  it  was  an  easier  task.  I  think 
you  liked  me  as  a  stranger ; — refuse  not  to  love  me 
now." 

Mrs.  Dushane  was  so  bewildered  and  astonished 
and  delighted,  she  was  very  near  falling  into  hysteric 
fits.  When  she  was  composed  enough  to  speak,  she 
repeated  in  a  kind  of  triumph : 

"  I  said  she  looked  like  our  Effie— I  said  she  made 
me  think  of  our  Effie." 

Clara's  blooming  cheek  turned  to  the  whiteness  of 
marble.  The  chill  of  envy  penetrated  to  her  very 
heart.  The  fascinating  being  whom  she  dreaded  as 
a  rival,  was  then  her  own  sister ;  so  long  the  object 
of  her  contempt  and  derision.  The  transformation 
was  too  great.  It  was  incredible!  Effie  met  her 
cold,  fixed  gaze,  and  an  involuntary  shiver  ran 
through  her  veins.  The  image  of  Dudley  Alston 
passed  before  her,  and  she  feared  to  think  of  the 
future. 

Mrs.  Dushane  was  so  proud  of  her  new  daughter, 
so  pleased  and  excited  by  the  eclat  and  romance  of 
the  circumstances  that  attended  her  arrival,  and  her 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  63 

house  was  so  thronged  with  visitors,  she  had  hardly 
any  time  to  think  of  Clara.  But  Clara  was  not  for- 
getful of  herself.  To  win  Dudley  Alston,  whom  she 
loved  as  far  as  her  vain  heart  was  capable  of  loving, 
was  the  end  and  aim  of  all  her  hopes  and  resolves. 
To  win  him  from  Effie  was  a  double  triumph,  for 
which  she  was  willing  to  sacriflce  truth,  honour,  and 
that  maiden  modesty  which  shrinks  from  showing  an 
unsolicited  attachment  She  believed  that  if  sho 
could  convince  Effie  that  she  herself  was  beloved  by 
Alston,  she  would  be  too  proud  ever  to  look  upon 
him  as  a  lover,  and  that,  if  Alston  supposed  Delamero 
a  successful  and  favoured  admirer  of  Effie's,  the 
same  pride  would  make  him  stand  aloof  and  forbid 
him  to  seek  an  explanation.  Effie  was  too  ingenuous 
and  high-souled  to  suspect  Clara  of  acting  this  doubly 
treacherous  part.  She  felt  as  only  a  nature  like  hers 
can  feel,  that  Dudley  Alston'  was  more  and  more 
estranged  from  her,  but  she  believed  Clara  was  sup- 
planting her  in  his  affections,  and  disdained  either  by 
look  or  word  to  draw  him  back  to  his  allegiance. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Dudley  Alston,  Effie?" 
asked  Clara,  abruptly,  once  when  they  chanced  to  bo 
alone. 

Effie's  quick  blood  rushed  burningly  to  her  cheeks. 

"  As  the  associate  of  my  youthful  pleasures,  as  my 
fellow-student  and  fellow-traveller,  he  must  naturally 
seem  very  near  to  me,"  she  answered,  with  assumed 
composure. 

"  He  is  very  handsome,  very  pleasing,"  said  Clara, 
with  affected  confusion,  "and  I  cannot  help  liking 


64  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

him  better  than  any  one  I  ever  knew;  you  who  have 
known  him  so  long,  can  tell  me  whether  I  may  trust 
him— I  will  say  it,  Effie— whether  I  may  dare  to  love 

him!" 

Effie  turned  deadly  pale— she  looked  in  her  sister's 
face,  and  asked  the  simple  question— 

"  Has  he  told  you  that  he  loved  you,  Clara?" 
"Good  heavens!  what  a  question!"  exclaimed  Clara, 
with  a  look  of  offended  modesty ;  "  do  you  think  I 
would  have  made  such  a  confession,  had  I  not  been  in 
the  first  place  aware  of  his  love  ?" 

"No,  surely  you  would  not,"  answered  she,  in  a 
voice  so  strange  and  unnatural  that  Clara  trembled 
at  the  bold  step  she  had  taken.  She  began  to  fear 
the  consequences. 

"What's  the  matter,  Effie ?"  said  she.  "Are  you 
faint  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  passing  her  hand 
hurriedly  over  her  brow;  "but  the  air  is  very  close 
here.  I  will  go  into  the  balcony." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  Clara  rose  simulta- 
neously. 

"  I  would  rather  be  alone,"  said  Effie ;  and  Clara 
dared  not  follow. 

"  The  hour  of  trial  is  come,"  thought  Effie ;  "  let  me 
meet  it  without  blenching  I" 

She  wandered  into  the  garden,  and  sat  down  under 
the  shade  of  the  sycamore,  where  her  uncle  had  found 
her  years  before,  longing,  in  the  bitterness  of  her 
young  heart,  to  die.  How  long  she  sat,  she  knew  not 
—she  was  roused  by  the  approach  of  Dudley  Alston, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.          65 

who,  seeing  her  sitting  like  a  pale  statue  there,  forgot, 
for  the  moment,  the  withering  doubts  which  Clara 
had  been  breathing  into  his  ear. 

"  Effie,  why  are  you  here,  sitting  so  pale  and  still  ?" 
cried  he  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  tenderness. 

Eflfie  rose  and  leaned  against  the  tree  fbr  support. 

"  Lean  on  me,  dearest  Effie,  "continued  he,  passing 
his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  drawing  her  towards 
him;  "you  are  ill — you  are  faint." 

Indignation  gave  her  strength,  as  she  released  herself 
from  his  clasping  arms. 

"I  can  forgive  inconstancy,  Dudley,  but  not  insult," 
said  she,  and  the  lightning  darted  from  her  eyes ; — 
"you  remember  that  I  told  you,  if  the  hour  should 
come  when  your  heart  was  not  wholly  mine,  I  would 
not  wed  my  fate  to  yours,  though  life  should  be  the 
sacrifice,  llad  you  nobly  and  ingenuously  told  me  that 
you  no  longer  loved  me,  that  my  more  beautiful  sister 
had  won  the  affection  you  once  thought  mine,  I  would 
have  forgiven,  I  would  still  have  loved  you  as  a  bro- 
ther. But  to  mock  me  still  with  looks  and  words  of 
seeming  love — I  cannot,  will  not  bear  it." 

"  By  the  heaven  above,"  exclaimed  the  young  man 
vehemently,  "I  swear  this  charge  is  false!  Who  dares 
to  accuse  me  ?  If  it  be  Delamere,  his  lily  face  shall 
soon  wear  another  livery." 

"No,  Dudley — wrong  not  one  who  is  incapable  of 
any  thing  mean  and  calumniating.  Clara  herself  has 
disclosed  to  me  your  love  and  hers,  and  I  here  declare 
you  as  free  from  all  allegiance  to  me,  as  the  cloud  that 
is  passing  over  the  sun.  But  she  may  as  well  build 
-  4 


66  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

her  home  oil  that    thin,   grey    cloud,   as  trust  for 
happiness  to  a  heart  as  light  and  vain  as  yours." 

"Effie!"  cried  he,  forcibly  seizing  her  hand,  and 
holding  her  back  as  she  turned  to  depart;  "you 
.shall  not  go  from  me  thus.  Come  with  me  into 
your  sister's  presence,  and  let  her  explain  this 
shameful  mystery.  I  have  never  breathed  one 
syllable  to  her  but  the  commonplace  language  of 
admiration.  My  heart  has  never  wandered  from 
you  toward  her,  or  one  of  womankind.  Come  with 
me.  I  demand  it  as  an  act  of  justice — I  claim  it  as  a 
sacred  right!" 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  a  deeper  voice  from  behind,  "he 
has  a  right,  and  I  will  sustain  it." 

And  Mr.  Ilorton  emerged  from  an  arbour,  which 
the  foliage  of  the  spreading  sycamore  partially 
formed.  He  had  been  reading  in  the  shade — one 
of  his  daily  habits  in  summer — and  had  overheard 
a  conversation  fraught  with  intense  interest  to  him. 
Strange! — the  good  man  despised  the  character  of  a 
listener,  and  yet  it  was  the  second  time  he  had 
involuntarily  acted  the  part  of  one,  in  the  really 
dramatic  history  of  his  sister's  family.  He  was 
indignant  and  excited,  and  drawing  Effie's  trembling 
arm  through  his,  he  led  her  towards  the  house,  with 
no  lagging  footsteps.  As  they  came  through  a  back 
path,  they  entered  the  room  before  Clara  had  time 
to  escape.  When  she  met  her  uncle's  stern  eye 
and  frowning  brow,  she  knew  she  was  to  be  arraigned 
as  a  criminal,  in  the  presence  of  the  man  for  whom 
she  had  bartered  her  integrity,  and  bartered  it  in  vaiu. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  67 

rt  I  have  lost  him  forever,"  whispered  her  sinking 
heart,  "  but  I  will  never  recant  what  I  have  said — ho 
never  shall  be  hers!" 

"  Clara,"  said  her  uncle,  approaching  still  nearer, 
and  keeping  his  piercing  eyes  upon  her,  "tell 
me  the  truth,  on  your  soul's  peril — has  this  young 
man  ever  made  professions  of  love  to  you  ?" 

Clara  bowed  her  head  slowly,  till  her  ringlets  half 
veiled  her  beautiful  face. 

"  I  have  revealed  it  to  my  sister,  and  I  cannot  deny 
it  to  you." 

"This  is  too  much!"  exclaimed  Dudley,  his  lace 
turning  hueless  as  ashes.  "Oh,  if  she  were  but  a 
man!" 

"Peace,  Dudley!"  cried  Mr.  Ilorton,  in  a  command- 
ing voice.  Then  again  turning  to  Clara. 

"  I  remember,  years  ago,  a  little  girl,  who  wantonly 
broke  the  geranium  her  mother  prized,  and,  to  screen 
herself  from  blame,  boldly  accused  her  innocent 
sister  of  the  fault  she  had  herself  committed.  Have 
you  forgotten  it  ?— or  the  shame  and  sorrow  of  that 
hour  ?  Clara,  you  are  still  the  same — false,  false  to 
the  very  heart's  core." 

"You  always  hated  me,"  cried  Clara,  trying  to 
assume  a  bolder  tone,  in  the  desperation  of  her  situa- 
tion; "you  always  hated  me,  and  took  Effie's  part 
against  me.  I  wouldn't  have  told  her  what  I  did, 
though  I  have  Raid  nothing  but  the  truth,  if  I  had 
thought  she  would  have  cared  anything  about  it.  I'm 
sure  she  might  be  satisfied  with  her  new  lover,  Mr. 
Delarnere,  with6ut  making  such  a  fuss  about  a 


68  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

castaway,  to  whom  I  condescend  to  show  some 
favour." 

"Clara,"  exclaimed  Effie,  raising  her  brow  from  her 
uncle's  shoulder,  where  she  had  bent  it  in  anguish 
and  shame  during  this  disgraceful  scene — "Clara,  you 
have  betrayed  yourself,  by  this  double  falsehood. 
You  know  that  I  have  refused  Mr.  Delamere  as  a 
lover,  but  that  I  honour  him  as  a  friend.  I  considered 
such  a  secret  sacred,  but  you  have  forced  me  to  reveal 
it.  Dudley,  my  heart  acquits  you  fully,  freely,  humbly 
— for  oh!  how  much  have  I  erred  in  thus  doubting 
thy  honour  and  thy  truth!" 

Their  eyes  met,  as  they  turned  towards  each  other. 
How  they  would  have  scaled  their  reconciliation  can- 
not be  known,  for  Mr.  Horton  threw  his  arms  around 
them  both  so  closely,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy,  that 
their  hearts  beat  against  each  other,  while  they 
found  a  parental  pillow  on  his  own.  Tears  fell  from 
the  good  man's  eyes. 

"God  bless  you,  my  children,"  cried  he,  kissing 
Erne's  crimsoned  cheek,  "  and  make  you  a  blessing  to 
each  other.  Let  not  the  falsehood  and  guile  of  others 
ever  again  shake  your  confidence  and  love.  Let  your 
love  be  founded  on  a  rock— even  the  Eock  of  Ages; 
then  the  winds  and  waves  may  beat  against  it  in  vain." 

During  this  scene,  the  guilty,  foiled,  and  conse- 
quently wretched  Clara,  stole  unnoticed  from  the 
apartment,  and  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber 
gave  vent  to  the  violence  of  long-suppressed  passion. 

"Oh!  that  I  had  been  born  ugly!"  she  said,  stamping 
iu  the  impotence  of  her  rage:  then  running  to  a 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  69 

mirror,  and  gazing  on  her  convulsed  features — "  I  am 
ugly  now — good  heavens,  how  horrible  are  the  effects 
of  passion!  Yes,  mother,"  continued  she — for  Mrs. 
Dushane,  who  had  heard  the  loud  and  angry  voices 
•below,  without  daring  to  enter,  fearing  in  some  way 
that  Clara  was  involved  in  the  difficulty,  softly  opened 
the  door  of  the  chamber  and  looked  anxiously  in — 
"yes,  mother,  come  and  see  your  beauty  now!  Soo 
your  own  work,  and  be  proud !  If  you  hadn't  called 
me  your  beauty,  your  pet,  your  darling,  till  I  sickened 
at  your  flattery,  and  loathed  the  author  of  it — if  you 
had  cultivated  in  me  one  moral  virtue,  I  should  never 
have  been  the  detected,  hated  and  despised  thing  I  am 
now!" 

Poor  Mrs. Dushane!  She  had  sown  the  wind,  and 
reaped  the  whirlwind. 

Effie,  who  pitied  her  unhappy  sister,  would  gladly 
have  shared  her  fortune  with  her,  but  this  her  uncle 
forbade. 

"  If  she  should  be  in  want  and  sorrow,  you  shall 
relieve  and  comfort  her,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  her 
prayers.  "  If  she  marries,  for  your  mother's  sake, 
you  may  supply  her  wedding  paraphernalia ;  but  I 
will  never  make  her  the  guardian  of  Heaven's  bounty 
— never  give  her  the  means  of  administering  to  her 
own  evil  passions." 

The  UGLY  EFFIE,  soon  a  happy  bride,  became  her 
mother's  pet  and  darling.  The  BEAUTIFUL  CLARA, 
still  unmarried,  continued  to  embitter  her  peace,  and 
present  a  fatal  example  of  the  evils  of  maternal 
favouritism. 


70  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 


Jbrhmcs  of  a  goraig 

THE  evening  was  cold  and  clear.  The  stars  sparkled' 
dazzlingly  above,  the  frost  sparkled  white  and  chill- 
ingly below.  Young  Mordaunt  wrapped  his  cloak 
closely  around  him  and  walked  on  with  a  rapid  step. 

The  stranger  who  passed  him  in  the  dim  starlight 
might  have  taken  him  for  some  Haroun  Al  Raschia 
in  disguise,  he  wore  his  cloak  with  such  lordly  grace, 
and  his  head  sat  so  nobly  and  proudly  on  his  shoul- 
ders. But,  alas!  Mordaunt  was  very  poor.  He  had 
but  one  dollar  in  his  pocket,  and  he  knew  not  what 
the  morrow  would  bring  forth.  He  was  a  young 
physician,  just  commencing  practice  in  a  large  city, 
with  no  capital  except  his  brains,  but  with  a  stock  of 
enthusiasm,  hope,  and  faith  (notwithstanding  a  dark 
and  mysterious  destiny  had  shadowed  his  youth), 
sufficient  to  endow  all  the  Medical  Institutions  in  tho 
world.  He  was  now  treading  the  margin  of  his  pro- 
fession, watching  the  great  rushing  sea  of  life  that 
roared  around  him,  ready  to  seize  hold  of  some  sinking 
mariner,  and  save  him  from  destruction.  But  the  poor 
wretches  were  sure  to  stretch  out  their  trembling  arms 
to  some  older,  more  experienced  swimmer  on  the 
human  tide,  and  the  young  man  was  obliged  to  work 
off  his  superfluous  energy  and  skill  in  acts  of  gratuitous 
service.  This  evening  he  had  been  unusually  fortu- 
nate. He  had  received  one  dollar  as  a  fee,  and" having 
a  passionate  love  of  the  drama,  he  was  about  to  indulge 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  71 

himself  in  a  visit  to  the  theatre,  whose  doors  poverty 
had  long  closed  against  him.  A  distinguished  actor 
was  starring  on  the  boards,  and  Mordaunt  was  hasten- 
ing to  secure  a  favourable  seat  in  the  parquette.  At 
the  corner  of  the  street,  he  met  a  young  man  of  the 
name  of  Wiley,  who,  turning  round,  walked  in  the 
same  direction  with  him.  Mordaunt  always  felt  as  if 
he  came  in  contact  with  a  counter  stream  of  thought, 
when  he  met  this  young  man ;  and  now  it  seemed  as 
if  a  dash  of  cold,  quenching  water  was  thrown  over 
the  glow  of  his  anticipations.  There  was  no  sympathy, 
no  congeniality.  It  was  the  contrast  of  fire  and  ice. 

"  Whither  so  fast,  Mordaunt  ?" 

"  To  the  theatre.  Are  you  disposed  for  the  same 
amusement?" 

"  No ;  I  cannot  afford  it !" 

"Afford!"  repeated  Mordaunt,  in  an  accent  of  sur- 
prise. 

Wiley  was  reputed  wealthy,  and  thousands  taken 
from  his  pockets  would  scarcely  leave  as  deep  a  void 
as  Mordaunt's  solitary  dollar. 

"  I  cannot  afford  the  time,"  repeated  Wiley.  "  Life 
is  too  short  for  the  great  purposes  of  utility,  and  too 
precious  to  be  wasted  in  search  of  amusement.  I  find 
no  leisure  for  such  things  myself;  but  every  one  has 
a  right  to  put  his  own  estimate  on  the  gifts  of  God, 
and  improve  them  as  he  thinks  best." 

There  was  something  cold  and  cutting  in  the  tone 
of  his  voice,  something  assimilated  to  the  frosty  at- 
mosphere, that  penetrated  the  ear  of  Mordaunt  and 
chilled  him. 


72  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"I  know  there  are  some,"  he  replied,  "\vho  can 
keep  on,  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  in  the 
same  tread- mill  mode  of  existence,  unconscious  of 
weariness  as  of  progress ;  but  I  cannot ;  I  must  have 
occasional  excitement.  I  cannot  sit  forever  in  my 
office,  waiting  for  the  stagnant  waters  of  the  pool  to 
be  stirred  by  the  angel  of  success.  The  principle  of 
vitality  burns  too  intensely  in  my  bosom  for  inaction. 
It  must  have  fuel.  If  not  of  the  kind  I  most  desire, 
the  light  combustibles  which  a  random  breeze  may 
throw  in  its  way " 

"For  God's  sake,"  exclaimed  a  broken  voice,  so 
suddenly  it  made  them  both  start,  "  for  God's  sake, 
gentlemen,  show  me  the  way  to  a  doctor.  My  wife  is 
dying.  Where  can  I  find  a  doctor  ?" 

The  blaze  of  a  gas-lamp  fell  full  upon  the  face  of 
the  speaker.  It  was  a  man  miserably  poor,  to  judge 
by  his  patched  and  threadbare  garments.  lie  had  no 
outer  covering  to  protect  him  from  the  cold  night  air, 
and  his  old,  napless  hat,  that  beacon-sign  of  decaying 
gentility,  looked  as  if  it  had  been  Fortune's  foot-ball. 
In  the  weak,  trembling  under  lip,  the  wan,  bloodshot 
eye,  the  ravages  of  intemperance  were  written  in  de- 
facing characters.  At  this  moment,  however,  he  was 
in  the  sober  possession  of  all  his  faculties.  Despair 
and  remorse  lent  urgency  and  eloquence  to  his  ac- 
cents. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,"  he  again  repeated, 
"direct  me  to  a  doctor.  Though,"  he  added  with 
bitterness,  "  T  have  not  a  cent  in  the  world  to  pay 
him " 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  73 

"I  am  a  physician,"  cried  Mordaunt,  Ins  warm,  im- 
pulsive heart  glowing  within  him  at  the  prospect  of 
being  able  to  administer  relief  to  suffering  humanity. 
"Show  me  where  you  live.  I  will  see  what  I  can  do 
for  your  wife." 

"The  Lord  Almighty  bless  you!"  exclaimed  the 
suppliant,  the  tears  which  are  ever  ready  to  flow 
from  the  eyes  of  the  inebriate  washing  his  bloated 
cheeks. 

"I  wish  you  joy  of  your  patient,"  said  Wiley. 
"  This  must  be  the  angel  who  is  to  stir  the  waters  of 
the  stagnant  pool  of  life." 

Just  as  Mordaunt  was  turning  to  follow  the  steps 
of  his  miserable  conductor,  without  answering  the 
sneering  remark  of  Wiley,  another  man  came  rushing 
along  the  pavement  as  if  the  avenger  of  blood  was  be- 
hind him. 

'•  What  is  the  matter?"  cried  "Wiley,  moving  in- 
stinctively from  the  path.  "  Are  the  blood  hounds 
let  loose  to-night?" 

"  The  horses  have  run  away  with  my  master,"  an- 
swered the  man,  panting  for  breath.  "  He  has  been 
thrown  upon  the  pavement.  His  leg  is  broken — his 
arm  is  fractured.  I  want  a  doctor,  a  surgeon,  at  the 
quickest  possible  notice.  For  the  love  of  mercy,  di- 
rect me  to  the  nearest." 

"Well,  Doctor  Mordaunt,"  said  Wiley,  "your  star 
seems  to  be  in  the  ascendant  to-night.  I  know  this 
man's  master.  It  is  Mr.  Goldman,  the  modern  Croesus. 
Your  fortune  is  made." 

"I  have  promised  this  poor  creature  to  go  with 


74  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

him,"  answered  Mordaunt,  struggling  with  the  strong 
temptation  that  beset  him.  The  glow  of  compassion 
faded.  Turning  suddenly  to  the  wretched  being  who 
had  been  calling  down  blessings  on  his  head,  he  said — 

"  Tell  me  where  you  live,  and  as  soon  as  I  have 
attended  to  the  gentleman  who  requires  my  assistance, 
I  will  call  and  see  your  wife." 

"  O,  sir,  she  is  dying — I  left  her  in  spasms.  She 
will  die  if  you  delay.  You  promised  me,  you  know 
you  did.  God  gave  her  life  as  well  as  the  rich  man. 
If  you  let  her  perish,  God  will  judge  you  for  it,  and 
man,  too." 

The  pale  eye  of  the  drunkard  kindled  fiercely  as  he 
spoke.  He  forgot  that  he  had  been  draining,  drop  by 
drop,  the  heart's  blood  of  her  whose  life  he  was  re- 
quiring so  vehemently  of  another. 

"He  is  right,"  said  Mordaunt,  heaving  off  the 
temptation,  with  a  long,  deep  inspiration;  then  di- 
recting the  servant  of  Mr.  Goldman  to  the  office  of 
Dr.  Lewis,  an  eminent  surgeon  as  well  as  physician, 
he  immediately  followed  the  rapid  but  unsteady  steps 
of  his  guide. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  he  to  himself,  as  he  walked  along, 
glad  that  he  had  girded  himself  for  his  task  of  mercy, 
"  yes,  he  is  right.  Though  waves  of  gbld  should  roll 
over  my  path,  they  could  not  drown  the  faintest  whis- 
per of  accusing  conscience.  Yet,  what  a  glorious 
opportunity  I  have  lost !  Rich !  Wiley  says  he  is 
rich,  and  riches  always  give  influence.  Let  me 
imagine  the  result  of  the  incident,  supposing  I  could 
have  profited  by  this  golden  chance.  He  is  r'«ch— I 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICA*  LIFE.          75 

am  skilful — at  least,  occultly  so.  He  is  suffering — I 
relieve  him.  He  is  munificent — I  am  grateful.  He 
becomes  eloquent  in  praise  of  the  young  physician, 
recommends  him  to  favour,  and  favour  comes  fast  tread- 
ing on  the  heels  of  success.  Dr.  Mordaunt  begins  to 
make  a  name  and  fame.  The  poor  little  bark,  that  has 
kept  close  to  the  shore,  without  one  favouring  gale  to 
fill  its  sail,  now  spreads  them  gallantly  to  the  breeze, 
and  floats  fearlessly  on  the  foaming  billows  of  the  main. 
Ah !  perchance  the  rich  man  has  a  daughter — a  lovely 
daughter — fair  as  the  dream  of  a  poet — a  Cordelia  in 
filial  tenderness,  an  Imogen  in  purity,  and  a  Juliet  in 
love.  She  bends  in  transport  over  her  recovering 
father,  she  blesses  my  healing  power.  She  raises  her 
eyes  of  dewy  splendour  to  rny  face.  The  accents  of 
gratitude,  which  she  strives  in  vain  to  utter,  melt  on 
her  sweet,  rosy  lips.  I  take  her  soft  hand  in  mine, 

when " 

Mordaunt  was  suddenly  checked  in  his  sentimental 
reverie  by  coming  in  contact  with  a  cold,  damp  wall, 
whose  resistance  almost  threw  him  backward.  His 
guide  had  turned  into  a  narrow,  dark  alley,  running 
back  of  a  splendid  block  of  buildings,  and  the  damp, 
close  air  breathed  of  the  mould  and  vapours  of  the 
tomb.  But  the  pure  stars  glistened  through  the 
opening  above  with  a  concentration  of  brilliancy 
absolutely  sunlike.  Mordaunt  realized  their  immense, 
immeasurable  distance.  He  sighed  as  he  looked  up, 
thinking  that  even  thus  all  that  was  bright  and  beau- 
tiful seemed  to  elude  him,  shining  cold  and  high, 
alluring  and  baffling.  One  star  of  exceeding  glory 


76  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

riveted  his  gaze.  Up  in  the  centre  of  the  zenith  it 
shone,  a  blazing  diamond  on  the  forehead  of  night. 
By  a  sudden  transition  of  thought,  Hordaunt  recalled 
the  scene  when  the  Chaldean  shepherds  beheld  the 
star  of  the  East  beaming  above  the  manger  which  was 
made  the  cradle  of  the  infant  God.  What  a  glory 
thrown  around  poverty  1  A  God  in  a  manger  I  Should 
one  be  ashamed  of  lowliness,  when  the  Deity  had 
wrapped  himself  in  it,  as  a  mantle?  Mordaunt  felt  a 
sublime  contempt  for  all  the  gauds  of  this  world. 
And  this  sudden  lifting  of  the  soul  was  caused  by  that 
one  bright,  ascendant  star,  on  which  his  wandering 
gaze  had  fixed.  That  star  was  his — the  whole 
heavens,  with  their  resplendent  host,  were  his.  A 
soul,  capable  of  taking  in  this  amplitude  of  glory,  was 
his — a  heart,  large  enough  to  embrace  all  the  suffering 
children  of  humanity,  was  his.  How  could  he  call 
himself  poor?  All  the  dark  past  was  forgotten. 

He  was  obliged  to  bend  his  head  while  passing  into 
the  low  dwelling  occupied  by  the  patient.  The  light 
was  so  dim,  contrasted  with  the  white  dazzle  of  the 
stars  on  which  his  eyes  had  been  so  long  fixed,  he  did 
not  at  once  see  with  distinctness  the  interior  of  the 
apartment  into  which  he  was  ushered.  But  gradually 
every  object  came  out  as  through  the  gloom  of  a 
morning  twilight.  A  low  bed,  whose  snow-white 
covering  spoke  of  neatness  and  lingering  refinement 
in  the  midst  of  penury  and  domestic  misery,  stood 
opposite  the  door,  and  above  that  snowy  covering 
rose  a  pale  and  ghastly  face,  with  closed  eyelids  and 
parted  lips,  through  which  the  breath  came  slowly 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  77 

and  gaspingly.  By  the  side  of  the  bed  sat  a  figure 
wrapped  in  a  large,  gray  shawl,  which  nearly  en- 
veloped the  whole  person.  The  face  belonging  to 
this  figure  turned  slowly  toward  him,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  bed,  and  it  shone  upon  him  in  tliat  dim 
apartment  like  one  of  those  evening  stars  he  had  just 
been  contemplating,  beaming  through  a  dull,  gray 
cloud.  It  was  a  face  of  youth  and  beauty,  but  pale, 
sad,  and  holy  as  a  nun's ;  a  countenance  which  had 
been  bending  over  the  couch  of  the  dying  till  the 
shadow  of  mortality  had  passed  over  its  brightness. 
No  conscious  start  disturbed  the  quietude  of  her  atti- 
tude, no  sudden  blush  coloured  the  fair  cheek,  as  she 
met  the  wondering  glance  of  Mordaunt,  who  bowed 
his  head  in  acknowledgment  of  her  presence.  A 
groan  from  the  apparently  dying  woman  recalled  his 
attention  to  her,  and  taking  her  thin  and  sallow  hand 
in  his,  he  counted  the  low  and  flickering  pulse ;  then 
lifting  the  candle  from  a  little  table  not  far  from  the 
bed,  he  held  it  so  that  the  light  might  fall  upon  her 
faded  and  sunken  features.  Her  eyelids  moved  not, 
as  the  rays  flashed  over  them.  He  spoke  to  her  in  a 
clear,  deep  voice,  but  the  sound  did  not  penetrate  her 
deafened  ear. 

"She  is  not  dying,  doctor?"  cried  the  man,  fixing 
his  bleared  and  rueful  eyes  on  Mordaunt's  serious  and 
earnest  countenance.  "  You  don't  think  she  is  dying, 
doctor?" 

"  She  is  very  low,  very  low,  indeed,"  replied  Mor- 
daunt. "  How  long  has  she  been  in  this  exhausted 
state?" 


78  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE  ;   OR,  THE 

"About  half  an  hour;  ever  since  the  spasm  sub- 
sided," said  the  young  lady  with  the  gray  shawl 

The  voice  was  BO  sweet,  and  had  such  a  subdued 
and  holy  tone,  that  Mordaunt  held  his  breath  to 
listen. 

"O!  it  was  terrible,"  she  continued,  "to  witness 
that  awful  paroxysm!" 

"  Surely  you  were  not  alone  with  her  ?"  exclaimed 
the  young  doctor,  involuntarily. 

"No,"  she  replied,  with  a  slight  shudder;  "a  ser- 
vant was  with  me,  whom  a  short  time  since  I  sent  for 
wine,  thinking  it  might  possibly  revive  her." 

"  I  fear  it  may  be  too  late,"  said  Mordaunt.  "  Her 
nervous  system  seems  completely  destroyed,  worn  out 
by  long  struggles,  I  should  think." 

Here  he  riveted  his  gaze  on  the  drunken  husband, 
with  a  look  that  spoke  volumes. ' 

"/  haven't  killed  her,"  he  cried,  weeping  and  sob- 
bing aloud.  "  I  know  I  have  not  always  treated  her 
as  I  ought — I  have  sometimes  been  rough  to  her, 
when  I  didn't  well  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  never 
struck  her  but  once — as  I  remember — never — I 
didn't  mean  to  hurt  her — I  haven't  killed  her, 
doctor " 

"But  once!"  exclaimed  Mordaunt,  indignantly. 
"  It  was  enough !  It  was  a  death-blow  1" 

"  Lord  Almighty  1"  cried  the  man,  staggering  back 
into  a  chair,  and  turning  frightfully  pale,  as  another 
deep  groan  echoed  through  the  room. 

Mordaunt  took  up  the  vials  clustered  on  the  table, 
and  after  having  examined  them,  poured  some  ether 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  79 

in  a  glass,  and  having  diluted  it  with  water,  put  it  to 
the  passive  lips  of  the  patient.  The  odour  of  the 
ethereal  fluid  seemed  to  revive  her.  She  breathed 
more  easily,  and  the  eyeballs  began  to  move  under 
the  closed  lids. 

"She  needs  stimulants,"  said  Mordaunt;  "wine 
will  not  be  strong  enough.  She  must  have  brandy. 
Ilere,"  added  he  to  the  husband,  taking  from  his 
purse  the  solitary  dollar — that  dollar  which  was  to 
have  been  the  open-sesame  to  the  magic  caverns 
of  fancy — and  placing  it  in  his  hand,  "here,  go  to 
the  nearest  apothecary's  and  get  a  bottle  of  the  best 
French  brandy,  such  as  they  keep  for  the  sick.  Make 
haste." 

The  bloodshot  eyes  of  the  drunkard  flashed  up 
with  a  sudden  and  fierce  delight.  The  very  sound 
of  the  word  brandy  tingled  his  blunted  senses.  The 
sight  of  the  money  was  fuel  to  his  feverish  and  brutal 
desires.  Mordaunt  felt  a  gentle  touch  on  his  arm,  and 
looking  round,  he  saw  the  gleam  of  a  white  hand  on 
his  dark  coat.  The  folds  of  the  gray  shawl  swept 
momentarily  against  him. 

"He  is  gone,"  said  the  young  lady,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment; "alas!  he  cannot  be  trusted." 

"Surely,  at  a  moment  like  this  he  must  be  faithful!" 
cried  Mordaunt;  yet  the  recollection  of  the  insane 
gleam  of  his  eye  made  him  shudder. 

"Strange  that  Hannah  does  not  return,"  said  the 
young  lady,  looking  anxiously  toward  the  door.  Her 
countenance  brightened  even  as  she  spoke,  for  a 
woman  came  to  the  threshold  and  beckoned  her  to 


80  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

approach.  Mordaunt  heard  a  startling  exclamation 
from  the  gray-shawled  damsel,  in  answer  to  something 
the  woman  said,  in  a  quick,  low  voice. 

"Good  heavens!  My  uncle!  How  could  it  happen? 
His  arm  and  leg — both  broken !  0 !  what  a  dreadful 
night!" 

She  leaned  against  the  frame  of  the  door,  as  if  over- 
come with  the  shock  she  had  received.  Mordaunt 
saw  that  she  was  deadly  pale,  and  handed  her  a  glass 
of  water.  She  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  as 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  he  remembered  his 
reverie  about  the  rich  man's  daughter,  and  how  her 
vision  had  passed  before  him,  fixing  her  eyes  of 
dewy  splendour  on  his  face.  The  vision  seemed 
realized — only  it  was  the  rich  man's  niece,  instead 
of  his  daughter,  and  he  was  in  the  poor  man's 
hovel,  instead  of  the  rich  man's  palace. 

"You  will  not  leave  this  poor  creature,"  said  she, 
folding  her  shawl  closely  around  her,  and  making  a 
motion  to  Hannah  to  follow  her.  "  My  poor  uncle ! 
how  much  he  must  suffer  I" 

She  stepped  upon  the  threshold,  unbonneted  and 
unveiled. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  going  abroad  without  a  pro- 
tector, at  this  hour?"  cried  Mordaunt,  feeling  the 
impossibility  of  leaving  his  poor  patient  alone,  yet 
longing  to  offer  his  services  as  an  escort. 

"I have  only  to  pass  through  the  gate,"  she  replied; 
"  this  cabin  is  back  of  my  uncle's  yard.  God  bless 
you,  sir,  for  your  kindness  to  this  poor  woman!  She 
is  worthy  of  it." 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  81 

She  was  gone — the  Evening  Star,  as  bis  spirit  called 
her — and  he  seemed  left  in  darkness. 

Yes !  this  must  be  the  niece  of  Mr.  Goldman,  whom 
lie  might  have  had  for  a  patient,  and  who  might 
have  opened  to  him  the  golden  portals  of  success. 
Such  an  opi/cr:anity  scarcely  occurs  more  than  once 
in  a  lifetime.  And  what  good  had  he  done  to  this 
poor  woman?  Ether  and  brandy  might  possibly 
add  a  few  hours  to  her  miserable  existence;  but 
even  if  he  could  bring  her  back  to  life,  he  would 
be  bestowing  no  blessing.  Life  to  a  drunkard's  wife! 
— it  was  a  curse — a  living  death — a  dying  life.  Better, 
far  better  that  she  should  press  the  clay-cold  pillow 
of  the  grave,  than  that  bed  of  thorns.  Yet  he  did 
not  relinquish  his  cares.  lie  fed  the  waning  lamp 
of  life  with  the  oil  of  kindness,  and  continued  to 
watch  by  the  bed  of  the  sufferer,  bathing  her  temples 
with  water,  and  moistening  her  lips  with  wine.  He 
listened  for  the  footsteps  of  the  drunken  husband, 
but  the  wretch  came  not.  lie  was  doubtless  steep, 
ing  his  soul  deeper  still  in  the  burning  fluid  of 
hell.  Mordaunt  remembered  the  soft  pressure  of  the 
white  hand  on  his  arm,  and  wished  he  had  sooner 
felt  its  warning  touch. 

About  midnight,  the  poor,  weak  pulse  his  fingers 
pressed  suddenly  stopped,  and  Mordaunt  found  him- 
self alone  with  the  dead.  As  the  inexpressible 
calm  and  placidity  of  death  stole  over  the  features, 
restoring  something  of  yonthfulness  and  beauty,  and 
the  charm  of  a  great  and  solemn  mystery  rested 
upon  them,  he  lookel  upon  her  with  a  strange 


82  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

interest.  The  human  frame  was  to  him  a  wondrous 
and  curious  -machine,  a  God-constructed,  glorious 
instrument.  He  looked  upon  it  with  the  eyes  of 
science,  and  whether  clothed  in  rags  or  fine  linen, 
he  recognized  the  hand  of  the  Divine  Architect. 

But  what  must  he  do?  Whom  could  he  sum- 
mon to  that  death-tenanted  chamber?  The  Evening 
Star  was  now  shedding  its  soft,  pitying  rays  over 
another  couch  of  suffering,  that  couch  which  his 
ministrations  might  also  have  soothed.  Just  as  he 
was  rising,  resolved  to  rouse  the  inmates  of  the 
next  cabin,  and  induce  them  to  attend  to  the  last 
duties  of  humanity,  the  door  opened  and  Hannah 
quietly  entered.  She  was  a  grave,  respectable-look- 
ing woman,  and  seemed  to  understand  at  one  glance 
the  office  that  devolved  upon  her.  Mordaunt  felt 
as  if  his  mission  was  now  ended,  and  he  was  glad 
that  it  was  so. 

"How  is  the  gentleman?  How  is  Mr.  Goldman?" 
asked  he.  "  Is  he  very  badly  hurt  ?" 

"  Dreadfully,  sir.  His  leg  and  arm  are  broken,  and 
he  is  shockingly  bruised,  besides.  You  can  hear  him 
groan  all  over  the  house." 

"  And  the  young  lady  ?" 

"Miss  Constance?  She  is  with  her  uncle.  She 
will  not  leave  him,  though  the  doctors  all  urge  her  to 
go,  and  she  looks  ready  to  drop  down,  too." 

"Has  he  many  doctors  with  him?''' 

"  There  are  three  below— enough  to  kill  him,  I  am 
sure,"  added  she,  in  a  kind  of  sotto  voce. 

"I  might  have  been  one  of  that  favoured  trio," 


JOY3  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  88 

thought  Mordaunt,  "  and  now  the  -weight  of  my  last 
dollar  is  added  to  the  millstone  of  sin  that  is  dragging 
a  wretch  to  the  abyss  of  perdition.  But  I  meant  to 
do  good.  God  forgive  me  for  repining." 

The  history  of  the  drunkard  and  his  wife  has 
nothing  to  do  with  our  story,  only  as  it  serves  to 
illustrate  the  character  of  our  young  physician,  and  to 
introduce  him  to  Constance  Goldman,  one  of  those 
angels  of  mercy  whom  God  sometimes  sends  into  the 
world  to  drop  balm  into  the  wounds  that  sin  has  made, 
and  to  strew  with  roses  and  lilies  the  thorny  path  that 
leads  to  the  grave. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away.  Mordaunt  continued 
to  struggle  on — to  struggle  on  the  very  verge  of 
penury,  just  able,  with  the  strictest  economy,  to  pay 
his  daily  expenses.  His  practice  was  extending,  but 
chiefly  among  the  poor,  whose  scanty  purse  he  felt 
unwilling  to  diminish.  He  was  gaining  experience 
but  losing  hope.  His  youthful  appearance  was  a  bar 
to  his  success.  He  had  a  strong  desire  to  cut  off  his 
bright,  brown  locks,  which  had  a  most  obstinate  and 
provoking  wave,  and  assume  a  venerable-looking  wig; 
to  cover  his  sunny,  hazel  eyes  with  a  pair  of  green 
spectacles,  and  wear  an  expression  of  supernatural 
gravity  and  intense  wisdom.  Every  thing  short  of 
this,  he  did,  to  make  himself  older,  but  in  vain.  The 
fire  of  youth  was  burning  in  the  temple  of  life,  and  it 
illuminated  all  surrounding  objects. 

Once,  when  he  was  walking  with  "Wiley,  (for,  un- 
congenial as  they  were,  they  were  frequent  com- 
panions,) a  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  splendid 


84  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OB,   THE 

mansion  just  before  them.  A  lady  descended,  whom 
he  immediately  recognized  as  the  Evening  Star.  The 
gray  cloud  no  longer  enveloped  her  graceful  figure, 
which  was  robed  in  all  the  elegance  of  fashion.  The 
face  was  less  pale  and  sad  than  when  he  saw  her  last, 
but  still  wore  that  celestial  fairness  which  is  seldom 
warmed  with  the  colouring  of  earth.  Mordaunt  bowed 
low  to  the  recognizing  glance,  while  Wiley  stepped 
forward  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  acquaintance,  and 
offered  his  assistance  in  leading  her  up  the  flight  of 
marble  steps  which  led  to  the  door. 

Mordaunt  felt  a  sudden  swelling  of  the  heart  against 
"Wiley.  He  could  not  help  it,  though  he  despised 
himself  for  it.  He  knew  by  intuition  that  Constance 
would  speak  to  him.  lie  felt  that  he  was  not  forgot- 
ten. Though  her  cheek,  like  the  pure  asbestos,  kind  led 
not  at  his  approach,  her  eye  had  beamed  with  a  modest 
but  joyous  welcome.  He  knew  by  intuition  also  that 
"Wiley's  cold  and  biting  tongue  would  wither  like 
frost  every  kindly  sentiment  she  might  now  perchance 
feel  for  him.  He  did  not  dream  that  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him,  for  he  was  not  vain  or  presumptuous, 
but,  associated  as  they  had  been  in  the  holy  task  of 
mercy  and  compassion,  he  could  not  help  thinking 
there  was  a  sympathy  between  them,  which  he  could 
not  bear  to  have  chilled.  He  did  not  want  his  name 
to  be  mentioned  in  her  presence  by  the  lips  of  Wiley. 
But  why  should  he  suffer  his  equanimity  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  such  illusions?  She  might  not  condescend 
to  mention  him.  She  was  compassionate,  and  looked 
kindly  on  him,  when  she  had  met  him  in  the  hovel  of 


JOYS  ANT)  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  85 

the  poor,  but  should  he  seek  her  in  her  own  lordly 
home,  the  rich  heiress  might  cBm  with  her  indifference 
(he  could  not  associate  with  her  the  idea  of  scorn)  the 
poor  young  physician.  Mordaunt,  in  spite  of  his 
elasticity  and  hopefulness  of  spirit,  was  beginning  to 
feel  a  little  of  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred.  lie  had 
observed  that  morning,  with  rather  sorrowful  mis- 
givings, that  his  best  coat  was  a  little  more  lustrous 
at  the  elbows  than  it  was  when  he  first  wore  it,  and 
that  the  silken  down  of  his  hat  was  getting  a  little 
shorter  and  somewhat  worn ;  especially  on  the  rim  in 
front,  which  he  touched  when  making  his  graceful 
bows.  There  was  nothing  yet  to  detract  from  the 
gentility  of  his  appearance,  but  he  knew  a  day  would 
come  when  the  coat  would  grow  rusty  and  the  hat 
napless,  and  unless  he  had  more  profitable  patients 
than  the  drunkard's  poor  wife,  it  would  be  long  be- 
fore he  could  purchase  others.  He  entered  his  office, 
took  off  his  hat,  smoothed  it  carefully  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat  before  he  hung  it  on  the  peg,  then  ex- 
changing his  coat  for  a  student's  wrapper,  he  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  waked  up  the  dying  coals  in  the 
grate,  and  folding  his  arms,  gazed  steadfastly  on  a 
majestic  skeleton  that  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
silent  but  awful  guardian  of  its  solitude. 

"  Hail,  grim  companion,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  teacher, 
monitor,  and  friend !  Hail,  lonely  palace  of  a  departed 
king.  No — empty  cage  of  a  liberated  captive.  How 
often  has  the  poor  prisoner  beat  in  agony  against  the 
marble  bars  of  his  prison-house,  struggling  for  release . 
How  often  has  the  proud  monarch  revetted  in  pride 


86  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

behind  that  white,  gleaming  lattice- work ! 
for  six  thousand  years  the  great  Architect  of  the  uni- 
verse has  been  building  domes  like  these,  frail,  won- 
drous, glorious,  but  perishable — perishable  temples  of 
the  imperishable — corruptible  homes  of  incorruption  ; 
and  for  six  thousand  years  to  come,  perchance,  the 
same  magnificent  structures  will  rise  and  continue  to 
rise,  mocking  the  genius  and  invention  of  man.  It  is 
a  proud  thought  that  we,  masters  of  the  divine  art  of 
healing,  are  able  to  cheat  time  and  the  grave  of  their 
inalienable  right,  antf  preserve  from  decay  and  ruin 
fabrics  more  grand  than  Egyptian  tor  Grecian  art  ever 
fashioned.  Yes !  ours  is  a  noble  art,  and  I  exult  that 
I  am  one  of  its  disciples.  But,  alas !  I  am  still  very 
poor ;  and  0 !  the  irremediable  disgrace  that  still  clings 
to  my  name  1" 

We  will  leave  Mordaunt  for  a  while  with  the  grim 
companion  whom  he  makes  the  confidant  of  his  wild, 
deep  thoughts,  and  follow  Wiley  into  the  dwelling  of 
the  modern  Croesus. 


Mr.  Goldman,  who  was  still  suffering  from  his  broken 
limbs,  reclined  upon  a  couch,  near  the  fire.  Wiley 
sat  by  his  side;  Constance,  at  a  little  distance.  Wih-y, 
when  he  wished  to  please,  had  the  most  insinuating 
manners,  and  he  had  a  strong  desire  to  please  the 
uncle  of  Constance.  He  felt  confident  of  success  with 
him,  but  there  was  something  about  Constance  he 
could  not  fathom.  A  holy  serenity,  a  passionless  calm, 


JOTS  A1CD  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  87 

over  which  the  breath  of  admiration  flowed  like  a 
cloud  over  crystal,  leaving  no  impression  on  its  pure, 
smooth  surface.  As  she  now  sat,  looking  into  the  fire, 
with  a  soft  languor  diffused  over  her  features,  he  was 
flattering  himself  that  he  might  be  the  subject  of  her 
waking  dream,  when  she  startled  him  with  the  ques- 
tion, in  her  peculiarly  sweet,  low  tone  of  voice — 

"Who  is  the  young  gentleman  who  was  your  com- 
panion this  evening?" 

"  It  was  young  Doctor  Mordaunt,"  answered  "Wiley, 
vexed  at  finding  another  than  himself  the  subject  of 
her  reverie.  "But  surely  he  could  not  have  had  the 
presumption  to  bow,  as  an  entire  stranger?" 

"He  is  not  an  entire  stranger,  nor  do  I  believe  that 
he  would  be  guilty  of  presumption,  under  any  circum- 
stances," replied  Constance,  with  a  slight  shade  of 
haughtiness. 

"  Who  is  that  you  are  speaking  of?"  asked  Mr.  Gold- 
man, whose  ear  caught  the  sound  of  doctor.  "  Doctor 
Mordaunt?  I  never  heard  of  him.  Is  he  a  distin- 
guished physician  ?" 

"  He  is  a  young  tyro,"  answered  Wiley,  "  a  true  Don 
Quixote  in  his  profession.  To  show  you  what  chance 
he  has  of  arriving  at  distinction,  I  will  mention  an 
incident,  connected  with  him,  in  which  you,  sir,  have 
a  personal  interest.  The  night  when  you  were  thrown 
from  the  carriage,  and  your  footman  came  rushing 
through  the  street,  in  frantic  haste  for  a  doctor,  ready 
to  seize  the  first  he  could  grasp,  I  was  walking  with 
Mordaunt,  and  while  I  bewailed  your  misfortune,  I 
could  not  help  rejoicing  at  such  a  magnificent  opening 


88  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

for  him,  knowing  your  unbounded  influence,  and  the 
eclat  it  would  give  him  to  be  employed  even  acciden- 
tally by  you.  Would  you  believe  it,  sir,  he  refused  to 
follow  your  servant,  refused  to  administer  to  your  re- 
lief  " 

"Kefused?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Goldman,  with  an  air 
of  surprise  and  displeasure.  "This  is  very  unac- 
countable behaviour.  Did  he  know  who  I  am?  Or 
did  he  imagine  I  was  some  poor  wretch,  who  could 
not  pay  him  for  his  services  ?" 

I  told  him  who  you  were,  sir,  and  that  it  was  a 
life  of  no  common  value  that  was  endangered.  But 
because  he  had  promised  a  few  moments  before  to 
prescribe  for  the  wife  of  a  vile  drunkard,  who  with 
reeling  step  arrested  us  in  our  path,  a  creature  too 
low  to  be  considered  within  the  pale  of  humanity,  he 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  tale  of  your  sufferings,  and 
allowed  her  life  to  outweigh  yours,  in  the  scale  of  his 
judgment." 

"Fool  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Goldman. 

"  Perhaps  he  put  his  promise  in  the  scale  to  balance 
the  temptation,"  said  Constance.  "  Of  course  he  is 
wealthy,  or  he  would  not  slight  a  golden  opportunity." 

"  Not  worth  a  cent  in  the  world,"  answered  Wiley, 
"and,  what  is  more,  never  will  be." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Constance,  with  a  sudden  lighting 
up  of  her  fair,  calm  face,  a  splendour,  not  a  glow, 
"  when  I  tell  you  what  I  know  of  this  young  Doctor 
Mordaunt,  you  will  withdraw  the  opprobrious  epithet 
you  have  given  him.  The  night  of  your  dreadful 
accident,  I  was  with  poor  Kate  O'Brien,  when  ha 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  89 

visited  her,  and  I  was  struck  with  the  kindness  of  his 
manner,  and  the  heartiness  of  his  sympathy.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  skilful,  and  that  he  felt  as 
much  interest  in  her  recovery  as  if  a  great  reward 
were  to  be  his.  Kate  O'Brien,  sir,"  added  she,  looking 
toward  Wiley,  with  a  glance  he  could  not  understand, 
"  was  a  favourite  servant  of  my  mother's.  My  mother 
had  her  from  childhood  in  her  household,  and  loved 
her  almost  as  her  child-  She  was  faithful,  gentle,  and 
affectionate.  Ever  since  her  unfortunate  marriage  she 
has  lived  near  us,  an  object  of  interest  and  compassion. 
She  was  worthy  of  the  profoundest  pity,  whatever 
may  be  said  of  her  miserable  husband.  That  Doctor 
Mordaunt  should  conscientiously  adhere  to  his  promise 
of  visiting  the  poor  and  lowly,  in  the  face  of  a  strong 
temptation,  is,  I  think,  a  noble  instance  of  generosity 
and  self-sacrifice.  I  esteemed  him  before — I  honour 
him  now." 

"  And  what  is  this  young  doctor  to  you,  that  you 
defend  him  so  warmly,  Constance?"  cried  her  uncle, 
looking  suspiciously  on  her  shining  countenance,  for 
it  literally  shone  with  moral  admiration. 

"To  me,  nothing,  uncle;  but  the  cause  is  every 
thing." 

"What  cause?" 

"  The  cause  of  truth,  and  justice,  and  humanity.  I 
thought  if  you  and  Mr.  Wiley  understood  the  circum- 
stances which  I  have  related,  they  would  vindicate 
Dr.  Mordaunt  from  the  charges  of  Quixotism  and 
folly.  Uncle,  you  was  attached  to  poor  Kate— I  waa 
summoned  to  your  bed  of  agony — her  brutal  husband 


90  COURTSHIP  A>'D  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

forsook  her — this  young  man  remained  with  her  till 
she  died.  Even  then,  he  watched  by  her  lonely  corse. 
Hannah  found  him  guarding  it,  as  a  sacred  trust " 

Constance  paused.  She  had  spoken  with  more 
energy  than  she  was  aware  of,  and  a  faint  colour 
dawned  perceptibly  on  her  alabaster  cheek. 

Wiley,  exasperated  to  find  that,  instead  of  lowering 
Mordaunt,  he  had  only  exalted  him  in  her  estimation, 
rose  to  depart.  Constance  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the 
door  closed  on  his  departing  figure.  Mr.  Goldman 
looked  anxious  and  irritated. 

"  You  have  displeased  him,  Constance." 

"  I  care  not,  uncle.  His  displeasure  or  approbation 
are  alike  to  me." 

"  He  loves  you.  He  has  wealth  and  talents  and  a 
rising  reputation.  I  do  not  like  to  see  you  blind  to 
his  merits,  and  infatuated  by  those  of  a  poor  stranger. 
I  wish  to  speak  to  you  openly,  Constance.  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  ever  recover  from  the  shock  my  consti- 
tution has  received.  It  is  time  that  I  should  transfer 
my  guardianship  to  another.  Wiley  is  rich  himself, 
and  cannot  be  allured  by  your  fortune.  His  attach- 
ment is  disinterested  and  sincere,  yet  he  has  sufficient 
worldly  wisdom  to  watch  over  your  property,  and  his 
sobriety,  prudence,  and  good  sense,  will  secure  your 
domestic  happiness.  I  like  Wiley.  I  wish  you  to 
marry  him." 

"I  do  not  like  him,  uncle.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry 
him,  or  any  one  else.  His  worldly  wisdom  chills 
the  very  atmosphere  I  breathe.  If  I  ever  do  marry, 
it  shall  not  be  a  man  of  dollars  and  cents,  a  man 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  91 

without  one  warm  and  generous  affection,  one  noble, 
magnanimous  feeling.  Kate  O'Brien,  the  drunkard's 
wife,  was  not  more  worthy  of  pity  than  I  should 
be.  Her  heart  was  crushed — mine  would  be  frozen." 

"Constance,"  said  her  uncle,  suddenly  raising  him- 
self on  one  elbow,  then  falling  back  with  a  groan 
of  pain,  "  if  you  have  conceived  a  sudden  passion 
for  this  young  doctor,  I  will  never  countenance  it;  I 
warn  you  against  this  folly.  It  shall  be  blasted  in 
the  very  bud." 

"Oh!  uncle,  have  you  so  poor  an  opinion  of  me 
as  to  believe  me  incapable  of  an  unselfish,  generous 
sentiment?  I  am  not  one  to  be  governed  by  the 
impulse  of  passion.  You  know  I  am  not.  I  am  called 
the  snow-maiden,  because  I  am  deemed  so  cold  and 
unimpressible.  I  do  feel  interested  in  this  young 
physician,  for  he  has  shown  himself  magnanimous 
and  strong  to  resist  temptation.  A  noble  spirit 
struggling  with  destiny  is  worthy  of  admiration.  I 
would  give  worlds  to  hold  out  to  him  a  helping  hand. 
I  would  give  any  thing  that  I  were  a  man,  that  I 
could  offer  him  a  brother's  aid,  a  friend's  assistance. 
I  feel  guilty  in  the  possession  of  wealth,  so  far 
beyond  my  want,  when  it  might  serve  as  a  golden 
ladder,  on  which  a  great  soul  could  mount  to  the 
heights  of  honour  and  distinction." 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,  Constance.  I  do  not 
understand  you,"  cried  her  uncle,  feeling  through 
the  icy  coldness  of  his  nature,  in  spite  of  his  own 
will,  the  penetrative  sun-rays  of  her  own  philanthropy. 
He  said  he  could  not  understand  her,  but  he  did 


92  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

in  some  measure.  lie  understood  her  enough  to 
know  that  she  was  misled  by  no  girlish  fancy,  nd 
unmaidenly  passion,  but  actuated  by  a  high  and  holy 
benevolence.  He  listened  to  her  with  more  patience, 
on  that  couch  of  suffering,  to  which  she  had  been 
a  waiting,  ministering  angel,  than  he  would  have 
done  in  his  days  of  health  and  ease. 

"  Uncle,"  she  added,  fixing  her  clear,  serene  eyes 
on  his  face,  and  taking  his  thin  hand  in  the  soft 
palms  of  hers,  "  you  a  -e  a  man,  and  can  do  what  I 
cannot.  You  are  rich — one  of  the  stewards  of  God's 
gold.  You  can  take  this  young  man  by  the  hand 
and  lift  him  above  the  influences  of  poverty,  so  chill- 
ing and  depressing  to  the  young  and  ambitious  mind. 
You  said  this  morning  that  you  did  not  like  Doctor 
Lewis,  that  he  was  careless  and  indifferent,  that  he 
would  not  listen  to  your  complaints,  and  seemed  to 
think  you  had  no  right  to  make  them." 

"Yes,  I  did  say  so,"  interrupted  Mr.  Goldman,  "and 
I  say  so  again.  He  never  stays  with  me  longer  thuu 
three  minutes,  treats  me  like  a  common  patient." 

"He  has  too  many  patients,  uncle.  You  are  of 
no  consequence  to  him.  Your  money  is  no  more 
to  him  than  any  other  man's.  If  you  should  employ 
this  young  doctor,  he  would  be  grateful  and  atten- 
tive. You  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling 
that  you  were  doing  him  a  favour,  perhaps  laying 
the  foundation  of  his  future  eminence.  You  would 
be  the  honoured  patron  of  youthful  talent  and  now- 
unknown  worth.  You  would  exult  in  your  own 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.  93 

works.  0!  uncle,  it  is  not  what  we  do  for  ourselves, 
but  others,  that  is  written  in  the  Book  of  Life." 

"You  say  he  was  very  kind  to  poor  Kate?" 

"  Oh  I  so  kind  and  compassionate !  No  brother  could 
have  been  kinder." 

"What  would  Doctor  Lewis  say?" 

"I  think  he  would  rejoice,  for  the  sake  of  the  young 
man.  He  is  too  eminent  in  his  profession  to  indulge 
in  the  meanness  of  jealousy." 

"What  will  Wiley  say?" 

"Wiley I  Let  him  say  what  he  pleases.  He  is 
envious,  and  I  despise  him.  He  is  malicious,  and  I 
dislike  him.  He  is  cold-hearted,  and  I  shun  him. 
He  is  avaricious,  and  cares  not  for  me,  but  my 
wealth.  Believe  me,  uncle,  he  is  unworthy  of  your 
confidence.  The  lips  that,  cold  and  sarcastic,  can 
breathe  the  venom  of  slander  on  an  absent  brother, 
never  shall  address  the  words  of  love  to  me." 

"Brother?" 

"All  mankind  are  brothers,  uncle.  O!  I  feel  the 
chain  that  binds  me  to  my  race.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  mine  should  be  made  of  links  of  gold,  and 
others  of  galling  iron.  There  will  come  a  day  of  great 
equality,  uncle.  Blessed  are  those  who  labour  in  this 
world  to  establish  the  equilibrium  here,  which  will 
settle  at  last  on  the  meeting  waves  of  the  great  human 
mind." 

Mr.  Goldman  cast  a  look  of  perplexity  and  admi- 
ration on  his  niece.  He  could  not  follow  the  divine 
aspirations  of  her  spirit.  He  even  felt  awe. in  her 
presence.  She  seemed  scarcely  of  the  earth,  earthy. 


94  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

How  came  this  young  girl  by  these  holy  sentiments, 
surrounded  by  such  worldly  influences  ?  Cast  in  tho 
fiery  furnace  of  temptation,  with  the  dangerous  gifts 
of  beauty,  wealth,  and  genius,  how  is  it  that  she 
walked  unscathed  'mid  the  scorching  flames,  serene 
and  unmoved  ?  Was  it  that  one  in  the  likeness  of 
the  Son  of  God  walked  with  her,  as  he  did  with  the 
children  of  Israel,  and  disarmed  the  elements  of  the 
world  of  their  destroying  power  ? 

"  How  shall  I  send  for  this  young  doctor  ?"  sud- 
denly asked  Mr.  Goldman.  "  Do  you  know  where  he 
resides?" 

"  We  have  a  Directory.     I  will  get  it. 

Constance  sought  the  book,  and  immediately  ascer- 
tained the  location  of  the  young  physician. 

"I  will  try  himr  Constance.  If  I  do  not  like  him, 
I  shall  dismiss  him.  Remember,  it  is  only  an  experi- 
ment." 

"Certainly,  dear  uncle.  I  ask  no  more.  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times  for  this  kind  concession.  It  is 
good,  it  is  noble  of  you.  If  you  find  him  unskillful, 
it  will  be  your  duty  to  withdraw  your  influence,  for 
life  is  too  precious  to  be  lightly  dealt  with,  and  yours 
most  of  all.  Good-night." 

She  bent  a-nd  kissed  the  forehead  of  her  uncle  with 
unusual  tenderness.  He  drew  her  gently  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  she  was  rested  against  his  heart.  He  folded 
his  uninjured  arm  around  her,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  smooth,  soft  hair. 

"Constance,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  good  girl— too 
good  for  this  world.  I  wish  there  were  more  like 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  95 

you.  It  is  very  strange,  when  talking  with  Wiley,  I 
feel  as  hard  and  worldly  as  he  seems  to  be.  When 
listening  to  you,  I  seem  a  different  being.  The 
monitor  within  responds  to  your  sweet  accents. 
When  I  mingled  with  the  world,  every  thing  around 
me  wore  a  bright  metallic  glare.  I  found  myself 
valued  for  my  wealth,  and  I  took  a  pride  in  its  pos- 
session. Why  should  I  not  glory  in  what  gave  me 
power  and  influence?  Since  I  have  been  confined  to 
this  couch,  and  when  I  am  alone  with  you,  my  better 
nature  rises  and  sometimes  triumphs.  Good-night. 
God  bless  you,  Constance." 

"  And  you  too,  dear  uncle." 

A  tear,  which  glittered  on  the  fringed  curtain  of 
her  eyes,  fell  on  the  cheek  of  the  invalid,  as  she  turned 
from  the  couch.  It  was  only  deep  emotion  that  could 
draw  tears  from  the  eyes  of  Constance.  Her  feelibgs 
were  not  upon  the  surface.  They  were  far  down  in 
the  "sunless  retreats  of  the  ocean"  of  thought. 

The  next  day,  when  Doctor  Lewis  called,  Constance 
perceived  a  shade  of  embarrassment  on  her  uncle's 
countenance,  and  she  hastened  to  relieve  him. 

"  Doctor  Lewis,"  said  she,  as  he  turned  hastily  to 
the  door,  "  I  will  not  detain  you  long.  It  will  give 
you  neither  disappointment  or  displeasure  if  uncle 
should  free  you  from  your  attendance  on  him  ? 
Thanks  to  your  skill,  he  is  no  longer  in  danger.  There 
is  a  promising  young  physician  whom  he  wishes  to 
patronize.  His  name  is  Mordaunt.  Has  he  your 
permission  to  do  so  ?" 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  with  a  look  of  mingled 


96          COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

pleasure  and  surprise.  "I  like  your  frankness.  I 
have  heard  of  this  young  man.  He  is  promising.  I 
am  glad  to  hear  of  his  good  fortune." 

His  countenance  expressed  more  than  his  words ; 
but  Constance  did  not  blush  or  cast  down  her  eyes. 
She  related  in  a  few  words  all  that  she  knew  of  Mor- 
daunt,  and  that  it  was  owing  to  her  persuasions  that 
her  uncle  had  been  induced  to  employ  him. 

The  simplicity  and  frankness  of  her  manner  con- 
vinced the  doctor  of  the  purity  and  elevation  of  her 
motives.  He  was  not  a  cold,  unfeeling  man.  He  had 
not  time  to  express  his  feelings.  The  burden  of  a 
great  responsibility  rested  upon  him,  and  it  made  him 
grave  and  thoughtful.  If  he  made  hurried  calls  at 
the  rich  man's  bedside,  where  his  attentions  were 
needed  least  of  all,  he  often  stayed  hours  in  the  hovels 
of  the  poor.  Nothing  rejoiced  him  more  than  to  hear 
of  the  rising  fame  of  some  young  brother  in  the 
practice,  but  he  had  not  time  to  exert  himself  for  their 
interests.  He  had  met  Mordaunt  a  short  time  before, 
in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  at  the  house  of  a  poor 
German,  and  he  was  much  pleased  with  the  young 
man.  So  he  told  Constance,  and  a  smile  of  approba- 
illumined  his  countenance  as  he  did  so. 

"  When  I  was  a  young  man,"  said  he,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  latch,  "  I  had  many  a  hard  struggle  with 
the  world.  I  know  how  to  sympathize  with  these 
young  wrestlers.  Tell  Doctor  Mordaunt  so,  and  tell 
him  to  call  and  see  me.  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  him 
better." 

And  he  did  know  him  better,  and  became  his  firm 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  97 

friend  and  disinterested  counsellor.  And  Mr.  Gold- 
man was  charmed  with  the  young  physician,  and 
sounded  his  praises  in  ey.ery  ear. 

Mordaunt  had  indeed  cast  his  bread  upon  the  waters 
when  he  visited  the  dying  wife  of  the  drunkard,  and 
gave  away  his  only  dollar  in  the  hope  of  stimulating 
her  exhausted  energies.  He  did  not  know,  when  he 
entered  that  wretched  abode,  that  there  sat  the  angel 
who  was  to  stir  the  stagnant  waters  of  his  life.  But  it 
was  even  so. 

Now,  he  knew  that  he  was  indebted  to  Constance 
for  the  sudden  flow  of  prosperity  that  came  rolling  in 
the  dry  and  sandy  channel  of  poverty;  for  the  dawn- 
ing sunshine  that  shone  on  the  night-cloud  of  de- 
spondency; for  the  glorious  hope  of  future  distinction 
that  now  animated  his  being.  He  was  not  vain,  and 
never  believed  for  a  moment  that  personal  admiration 
for  himself  had  prompted  the  generous  interposition 
of  Constance  in  his  behalf.  Neither  did  he  impute  it 
to  compassion — that  would  have  humiliated  him — but 
to  a  just  appreciation  of  his  character,  learned  by  that 
intuition  of  woman's  heart  which  the  philosopher  ad- 
mits, though  he  cannot  explain. 

Mordaunt  had  an  exalted  estimate  of  woman.  He 
adored  his  mother,  and  dearly  loved  his  gentle  sister 
(for  he  had  a  mother  and  sister,  who  dwelt  far  away, 
in  a  sweet  country  village),  and  in  every  lovely  young 
female  he  recognized  a  sister's  form.  For  Constance 
he  felt  an  admiration  so  chastened  by  reverence,  it 
was  less  like  the  feeling  that  youth  and  beauty  in- 
spires than  what  the  worshipper  feels  for  his  guardian 
6 


98  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

saint.  It  was  not  love,  for  she  indeed  seemed  the 
snow-maiden — too  pure  and  too  cold  to  be  warmed  by 
the  breath  of  human  passi<^p.  He  experienced  in  her 
presence  a  feeling  of  divine  repose,  a  kind  of  moon- 
light quietude ;  for  such  was  her  exquisite  purity,  her 
holy  spirituality,  that  she  diffused  around  her  a  kind 
of  silvery  brightness  that  threw  a  soft,  illusive  charrn 
on  all  within  the  sphere  of  her  influence. 

Mordaunt's  practice  was  now  rapidly  extending 
among  the  rich  and  influential,  among  those  who 
could  appreciate  his  merits,  as  well  as  reward  his  ser- 
vices. He  no  longer  looked  with  anxious  eye  on  tho 
sleeve  of  his  coat,  or  the  rim  of  his  hat.  He  could 
afford  to  buy  new  ones.  He  was  no  longer  poor,  no 
longer  unknown.  His  mind,  liberated  from  the  iron 
fetters  of  poverty,  and  unchilled  by  the  vapours  of 
obscurity,  was  conscious  of  an  expansion,  a  warmth, 
an  elevation  unknown  before.  He  became  strongly 
attached  to  Doctor  Lewis,  who,  in  his  now  familiar  in- 
tercourse with  the  young  man,  displayed  a  geniality 
of  feeling,  more  winning  from  the  contrast  with  the 
prevailing  reserve  and  dignity  of  his  character. 

Mordaunt  occasionally  met  Wiley,  in  whose  breast 
the  gall  of  jealousy  was  added  to  the  venom  of  envy 
Himself  the  now  rejected  lover  of  Constance,  he  hated 
the  man  who,  he  believed,  had  rivalled  him  in  her 
affections.  He  did  not  discontinue  his  visits  at  Mr. 
Goldman's.  He  asked  to  retain  the  privileges  of  a 
friend,  though  denied  far  dearer  rights.  He  wanted 
to  watch  the  progress  of  Mordaunt,  and,  if  possible, 
undermine  the  stately  fabric  of  his  growing  fame. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.          99 

"  Every  man,"  said  he,  "  has  some  weak,  vulnerable 
point,  some  spot  that  the  Styx  of  Stoicism  has  not 
bathed.  Mordaunt  is  prqud.  Let  the  barbed  arrow 
pierce  him  through  his  pride,  and  the  wound  will 
prey  upon  his  life." 

The  soul  of  Mordaunt  had  a  vulnerable  spot,  but  it 
was  one  of  which  Wiley  never  dreamed,  a  spot  whero 
the  arrow  would  indeed  penetrate  deep  as  the  core  of 
life.  But  time  had  folded  its  layers  thickly  over  it, 
and  the  man  at  times  forgot  what  had  well  nigh  mad- 
dened the  boy. 

The  age  of  a  tree  is  known  by  the  consecutive  circles 
that  are  formed  round  the  heart  of  the  trunk,  and  it 
takes  many  a  stroke  of  the  sharpest  axe  to  reach  that 
guarded  part. 

Thus,  year  after  year  had  wrapped  round  the  quick 
of  Mordaunt's  heart  a  deeper  coating,  rendering  it 
more  inaccessible  to  external  injury.  He  was  far 
removed  from  the  associations  of  the  past,  and  on 
that  one  subject  the  lips  of  memory  were  hermetically 
sealed. 

One  evening,  Doctor  Lewis  came  into  his  office  at  a 
late  hour.  Wiley  was  sitting  there,  leaning  back 
against  the  wall,  on  the  back-ground  of  a  dark  cloak, 
so  that  his  figure  was  not  at  first  distinguishable.  Mor- 
daunt was  in  an  abstracted  mood,  and  apparently  for- 
getful of  the  presence  of  one  whom  his  nature  avoided 
with  a  strong,  electric  repulsion. 

"  Come  to  my  office,  Mordaunt,"  said  Doctor  Lewis, 
laying  his  hand  familiarly  on  his  shoulder ;  "  I  have  a 
glorious  subject — the  criminal  who  was  executed  this 


100  COURTSHIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

morning.  lie  is  certainly  one  of  the  noblest  speci- 
mens of  humanity,  as  fur  as  the  outward  man  is  con- 
cerned, I  have  ever  seen."  ^ 

An  expression  of  sickening  horror  passed  over 
Mordaunt's  countenance.  He  shrunk  involuntarily 
from  the  hand  laid  in  kindness  upon  hijn.  Doctor 
Lewis  beheld  him  with  surprise  and  disappointment. 

"I  thought  you  would  welcome  such  an  oppor- 
tnnity,"  said  he,  rather  coldly.  "You  surely  must 
have  conquered  ere  this  that  morbid  sensibility  that 
recoils  from  an  act  which  the  wants  of  science 
demand,  which  philanthropy  sanctions  and  religion 
approves.  The  man  who  has  violated  the  laws  of 
God  makes  an  expiation  greater  than  his  life,  when 
he  yields  his  body  to  the  scalpel,  which  explores 
the  winding  mysteries  of  vitality.  Living  he  may 
be  the  scourge,  dead,  the  benefactor  of  mankind." 

"Doctor,"  replied  Mordaunt,  and  his  usually  sunny 
eye  was  darkened  and  overcast,  "I  would  far  rather 
disturb  the  awful  slumbers  of  the  grave  than  touch 
the  poor  victim  of  man's  unrighteous  judgment. 
He  was  condemned  and  executed  on  circumstantial 
evidence  alone.  Such  a  decision  is  not  lawful.  It 
is  often  murder  of  the  most  cruel,  deliberate  kind. 
I  believe  him  innocent.  I  would  not  make  a  sacri- 
fice of  his  body  to  save  my  own  from  burning 
flames." 

Wiley  leaned  forward  from  his  darkened  corner 
and  gazed  with  intense  curiosity  on  the  pale  and 
excited  face  of  Mordaunt.  Why  should  he  feel  so 
painful  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  a  nameless  male- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        101 

factor?  What  was  his  guilt  or  innocence  to  him?  It 
was  not  merely  abstract  sympathy  with  his  race 
which  could  extinguish  the  colour  of  his  cheek, 
and  quench  so  suddenly  the  light  of  his  eye. 

Wiley,  the  naturally  cold  and  envious,  the  deli- 
berately jealous  and  now  malignant  Wiley,  watched 
his  victim  with  feline  subtlety  and  dissimulation. 
He  had  discovered  a  wire  which  communicated  with 
the  vital,  vulnerable  part  he  had  been  so  long  seek- 
ing. And  he  twisted  and  twisted  it  round  the  screw 
of  memory,  ready  to  draw  it  and  tug  at  it,  till  the 
heart's  blood  came  oozing,  drop  by  drop,  exposing 
the  inner  wound. 

"I  will  not  urge  you  to-night,"  said  Doctor  Lewis, 
taking  leave  of  Mordaunt  with  a  serious  kindness 
of  manner,  which  made  the  young  man  grasp  his 
hand  with  unconscious  warmth.  "I  see  you  are 
nervous,  and  I  fear  seriously  indisposed.  We  can- 
not always  command  our  will,  and  every  one,  I 
believe,  has  some  strange,  unaccountable  weakness, 
which  has  its  ebbs  and  flows  like  the  moon- ruled 
tide." 

"I  fear  you  think  me  weak,  doctor,"  replied 
Mordaunt,  "  but  do  not  judge  me  without  a  hear- 
ing. I  will  not  detain  you  now.  Some  time,  when 
you  are  entirely  at  leisure,  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing of  the  history  of  my  early  life.  A  terrible 
shock,  received  in  childhood,  will  make  the  electric 
chord  vibrate  in  long,  after  years." 

When  Doctor  Lewis  had  left  the  office,  Mordaunt 
resumed  his  seat,  and  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table, 


102  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE  J   OR,   THE 

pressed  Ms  forehead  upon  his  hand,  bending  his  head 
so  that  his  hair  fell  in  thick  masses  over  his  brow. 
Tnere  was  perfect  silence  in  the  apartment.  The  lamp- 
light fell  with  a  strong  glare  on  the  ghastly  frame- 
work  of  life  gleaming  cold  and  white  in  its  dim  recess, 
and  threw  the  shadow  of  Mordauut  darkly  on  the 
floor. 

"Wiley  looked  at  the  shadow  and  smiled,  then  softly 
rising,  he  approached  the  young  physician,  and  said, 
in  his  usual  cool,  passionless  tone — 

"  You  do  not  seem  well  to-night,  Mordaunt.  Can  I 
do  any  thing  for  you  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Mordaunt  haughtily.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  voice,  he  added — "  Pardon  me,  I 
thought  you  had  left  me." 

"I  am  glad  you  refused  to  accompany  Doctor 
Lewis,"  said  Wiley.  I  have  more  sympathy  with 
your  scrupulous  humanity  than  with  his  cold,  abstract 
love  of  science." 

"  I  have  not  been  actuated  by  humanity,"  said  Mor- 
daunt, hastily.  "I  will  not  accept  unmerited  com- 
mendation, if  you  consider  it  such.  But  /  do  not.  I 
look  upon  Doctor  Lewis  as  the  high- priest  of  humanity. 
He  is  a  votary  of  science  only  as  he  is  a  lover  of  man- 
kind." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  him  that  you  would  not  make 
a  sacrifice  of  the  body  of  that  man,  believing  him 
innocent,  to  save  your  own  from  consuming  fire." 

"Because,"  replied  the  young  man  with  energy, 
"he  probably  has  friends,  who  are  watching  with 
agonizing  anxiety  to  pay  to  his  poor  remains  those 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        103 

holy  rites  immemorial  time  has  hallowed.  His  black- 
ened name,  his  awful  doom,  the  rope,  the  scaffold,  and 
the  hangman's  gripe  cannot  divorce  the  victim  from 
their  affections  and  sympathies.  The  sanctity  of  a 
Christian  burial  heals  the  gaping  wound  caused  by  a 
violent  and  ignominious  death.  Who  would  rob  the 
wretched  survivors  of  so  poor  a  consolation  ?  Who 
would  deprive  them  of  a  home  for  their  bitter  tears  ? 
A  turf  to  make  green  with  the  dew  of  sorrow  ?  Those 
who  die  in  the  arms  of  their  kindred,  who  are  laid 
quietly  and  reverently  in  their  six-feet  bed  of  earth, 
with  the  balm  of  prayer  and  praise,  what  matters  it  to 
them  if  their  sanctified  dust  be  made  to  add  to  the 
glory  of  science  and  the  good  of  man  ?  What  matters 
it  to  them,  whether  their  bones  moulder  beneath  the 
clods  of  the  valley,  or  bleach  in  the  sunshine  of  heaven? 
Friends  never  go  to  pierce  into  the  mystery  of  the 
charnel-house.  Affection  shrinks  back  from  its  cold 
threshold.  The  wreath  may  hang  on  the  marble  urn 
— the  tablet  gleam  with  golden  characters.  Love, 
sorrow,  memory  ask  no  more." 

"Some  of  his  kindred  have  died  upon  the  scaffold," 
said  Wiley  to  himself,  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes 
to  hide  the  triumphant  malice  of  their  beams.  "I 
know  it  as  well  as  if  I  had  seen  their  bodies  swinging 
between  heaven  and  earth.  Constance  shall  know 
it,  too." 

"For  myself,"  continued  Mordaunt,  in  a  still  more 
excited  tone,  "  I  care  not  what  becomes  of  this  clay 
temple  of  mine  when  the  indwelling  Deity  is  departed. 
Earth,  fire,  flood  may  claim  their  own,  for  it  will  re- 


104  COURTSHIP  ANT>   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

solve  at  last  into  its  original  elements.  The  soul,  the 
enfranchised  angel,  what  cares  it  foe  the  poor  remnant, 
the  broken  chains,  the  badges  of  sorrow  and  slavery 
it  leaves  behind  ?" 

We  will  leave  Mordaunt  to  his  own  reflections ;  for 
when  the  door  closed  on  Wiley,  he  suddenly  extin- 
guished his  lamp  and  wrapped  himself  in  darkness,  as 
with  a  mantle.  The  memories  of  childhood  rolled 
back  in  a  black  flood,  lashed  into  billows,  drowning 
the  joys  of  the  present,  the  hopes  of  the  future ;  even 
the  serene  and  holy  light  of  the  Evening  Star  could 
not  disperse  the  thick  gloom  that  followed  in  the  wake 
of  those  cold  waters.  It  only  made  their  shadows 
more  appalling.  The  dark  hour  was  on  him,  the 
eclipse  of  the  soul,  for  the  first  time  since  the  evening 
which  introduced  him  to  Constance  Goldman. 

Yes,  every  mortal  that  has  a  soul  to  feel,  has  their 
dark  hours.  Sometimes  the  night-cloud  comes  we 
know  not  whence,  and  goes  we  know  not  whither. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  sorrow,  a  sor- 
row rising  gravely  and  gloomily  above  the  landscape 
of  life — still  existing,  though  years  may  have  stretched 
their  space  between. 

Mordaunt's  own  nature  was  too  bright  and  sunny 
'for  that  mysterious,  spirit- woe  so  many  are  doomed  to 
feel ;  but  the  dark  mountain,  whose  shade  had  fallen 
on  the  green  fields  and  flowery  vales  of  childhood, 
still  loomed  upon  his  sight,  through  the  dimness  of 
distance  and  the  mists  of  time. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         105 

Not  many  days  after  the  scene  we  have  described 
in  Mordaunt's  office,  he  was  met  by  Wiley  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Goldman,  who  was  still  an  invalid. 
Wiley  exerted  himself  more  than  usual  to  shine  in 
the  conversation  that  evening,  and  his  apparent 
warmth  of  feeling  nearly  surprised  Mordaunt  into  an 
inward  acknowledgement  that  he  had  wronged  this 
man's  nature ;  that  it  might  possess  some  of  the  finer 
traits  hitherto  lying  beneath  or  beyond  the  observa- 
tion of  the  world.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  and  with 
consummate  art,  he  led  the  conversation  through  many 
tributary  streams  into  the  channel  that  suited  his 
purpose. 

Pride  of  birth  and  station  had  been  touched  upon 
lightly,  and  Wiley  had  maintained  that  the  aristocracy 
of  intellect  was  the  only  true  aristocracy — the  one 
that  would,  sooner  or  later,  be  universally  acknow- 
ledged and  respected.  There  was  something  noble,  he 
said,  in  the  efforts  of  a  young  man  to  rise  above  the 
misfortunes  of  his  early  life.  But  no  honest  man 
should  be  ashamed  of  his  parentage. 

To  his  propositions,  deferentially  stated,  and  skil- 
fully reasoned,  he  gained  the  assent  of  even  the  aristo- 
cratic Mr.  Goldman. 

"But,"  said  Wiley,  glancing  keenly  towards  Mor- 
clauut,  "suppose  that  in  addition  to  his  poverty,  a 
dark  stain  rested  on  the  family  of  a  young  man,  and, 
concealing  all  knowledge  of  the  circumstances  of  his 
early  history,  he  should  strive  to  ingratiate  himself 
into  the  favour  of  his  superiors,  and  attaint  their 
skirts  with  the  blackness  that  clung  to  his  own." 


106  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  I  know  such  an  one,"  he  continued,  "  who  even 
aspires  to  the  hand  of  a  young  lady  far  above  him. 
He  has  partially  succeeded  in  impressing  her  with  tho 
belief  that  he  is  a  man  of  noble  sentiments  and  quali- 
ties, that  his  impulses  and  aspirations  are  like  her 
own,  that  his  genius,  talents,  and  acquirements  are  a 
fair  offset  to  her  possessions  and  proud  name,  and  that 
an  alliance  with  him  would  secure  to  her  happiness 
and  peace.  He  hides  from  her  his  history,  which  he 
would  fain  bury  in  the  oblivion  of  tho  past;  he  hides 
from  her  the  truth  that  his  name  would  bring  dis- 
honour upon  her  and  those  connected  with  her  by 
the  dearest  ties ;  he  hides  from  her  that  he  is  seeking 
this  marriage  to  gild  over  that  name  that  has  been 
stained  with  a  dreadful  crime ;  in  short,  he  hides  from 
her  the  fact  that  his  own  father  perished  ignominiously 
upon  the  scaffold  I  Is  this  honourable  ?" 

It  was  not  till  after  the  words  died  away  that  the 
spirit  felt  their  reptile  influence. 

Constance  had  answered — "No,  it  is  not  honour- 
able," before  this  influence  was  perceptible  on  herself. 
She  observed  the  eye  of  Wiley  fixed  steadily  on  Mor- 
daunt,  who  was  seated  at  her  side,  and  an  impulse 
which  she  could  not  resist  urged  her  to  turn  and  look 
upon  him. 

As  she  did  so,  she  met  his  glance,  and  her  own  was 
riveted,  as  by  fascination.  Never  had  she  seen  the 
face  of  man  of  such  marble  pallor.  Never  had  she 
witnessed  such  an  expression  of  sternness  and  despair 
on  any  human  countenance.  And  yet,  flashing 
through  this  sternness  and  despair  there  was  a  Bud- 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        107 

denly  kindled,  burning  ray,  quick,  bright  and  fierce, 
as  the  meteor  of  a  dark  night  In  that  momentary 
communion  of  glances,  a  history  was  revealed  which 
volumes  might  not  contain. 

You  have  seen  the  lightning  instantaneously  open- 
ing  the  gates  of  midnight,  while  stretching  beyond 
seemed  interminable  fiery  streets,  glimpses  of  the 
eternal  land.  So  ofttimes  the  lightning  of  strong 
emotion  discloses  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  soul, 
"that  city  of  our  God,"  whose  length  and  breadth  no 
ganger's  wand  has  ever  measured. 

For  one  moment  the  face  of  Constance  was  blood- 
less as  his  own,  then,  quickly  and  gushingly  as  tho 
blood  follows  the  stroke  of  the  lancet,  the  warm  cur- 
rent rushed  over  her  cheek  and  brow.  It  was  like 
the  breaking  up  of  an  ice-bound  stream,  when  the 
waves  leap  from  their  prison-bonds,  or  rather  (with 
reverence  we  use  the  comparison),  like  the  miracle  of 
Cana,  when  the  hueless  water  "owned  its  God  and 
blushed." 

Mr.  Goldman,  whose  easy  chair  was  placed  a  little 
back  from  the  group,  and  who  beheld  not  the  emotions 
we  have  described,  repeated  with  emphasis  the  words 
of  Constance — 

"  No,  it  is  not  honourable.  It  is  not  pardonable.  I 
could  pity,  nay,  esteem  the  young  man  who,  making  no 
secret  of  his  misfortune,  endeavoured  to  make  himself 
an  unblemished  fame.  But  I  never  would  forgive  the 
one  who  deceived  my  confidence  and  tried  to  intro- 
duce into  my  family  a  dishonoured  name.  Who  is 
the  young  man  of  whom  you  are  speaking?" 


108  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"I,  sir,  am  that  unfortunate  man,"  exclaimed  Mor- 
daunt,  to  the  astonishment  of  Wiley,  rising  from  hia 
seat,  and  turning  towards  Mr.  Goldman ;  "  but  I  have 
never  sought  to  deceive  the  confidence  of  my  friends. 
I  have  merely  been  silent  on  a  misfortune  for  which 
sympathy  has  no  balm,  and  friendship  no  relief.  I  ac- 
knowledge that  in  scenes  far  from  my  native  home  I 
have  endeavoured  to  forget  that  I  bore  a  dishonoured 
name,  and  to  make  for  myself  an  irreproachable  repu- 
tation. But  it  was  for  no  foul,  deliberate  crime  that 
my  unhappy  parent  was  doomed  to  a  death  of  shame. 
The  victim  of  a  dark  and  inscrutable  destiny,  he  left 
on  the  minds  of  all  who  knew  him  a  conviction  of  his 
innocence  as  clear  and  ineffaceable  as  if  the  testimony 
were  written  with  a  diamond  pen  on  a  tablet  of  crystal. 

"  This  gentleman,  with  a  penetration  that  does  more 
honour  to  his  head  than  his  heart,  has  discovered  the 
secret,  which  I  have  guarded  from  no  mean  or  unwor- 
thy motives.  Why  he  has  taken  this  opportunity  to 
disclose  it,  in  a  manner  the  tortures  of  the  inquisition 
could  not  have  surpassed,  he  alone  knows." 

"I  mentioned  no  names,"  cried  Wiley,  evidently 
disconcerted  by  the  undaunted  frankness  of  Mordaunt; 
"  if  conscience  has  directed  the  application,  I  neither 
claim  the  merit  nor  assume  the  blame." 

"Keally,  gentlemen,  this  is  a  most  extraordinary 
disclosure,"  said  Mr.  Goldman,  turning  pale  from  the 
excitement  of  his  feelings,  "I  know  not  when  my 
nerves  have  received  so  sudden  and  severe  a  shock. 
Doctor  Mordaunt,  I  have  never  met  with  a  young 
gentleman  whom  I  have  esteemed  more,  but  theso  un- 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        109 

fortunate  circumstances — you  should  have  made  them 
known  to  me  sooner.  I  am  placed  in  a  very  dis- 
tressing position." 

Here  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head  with  nn  air  of 
such  pain  and  embarrassment  that  Constance  immedi- 
ately saturated  her  handkerchief  with  cologne  and 
bathed  his  forehead.  She  was  glad  of  something  to  do 
in  a  moment  of  such  overwhelming  emotion. 

"  Let  me  relieve  you  of  the  distress  which  my  pre- 
sence occasions  you,  sir,"  cried  Mordaunt.  But  before 
I  withdraw  I  would  thank  you  for  all  past  kindness 
and  confidence.  I  rejoice  in  the  conviction  that  I  have 
not  forfeited  either  by  any  conduct  of  my  own.  Should 
you  consider  me  responsible  for  an  event  which  oc- 
curred in  my  early  childhood,  and  which  no  acts  of 
my  manhood  could  change,  and  exclude  me  hereafter 
from  your  friendship  and  esteem,  I  must  bow  to  a  de- 
cision whose  justice  nevertheless  reason  and  religion 
could  never  admit.  Farewell,  sir.  I  wish  you  to  re- 
flect calmly  on  this  question,  and  whatever  be  the  re- 
sult, gratitude  for  the  past  will  be  permanent  as  my 
life." 

With  a  respectful  bow  to  Mr.  Goldman,  who  did 
not  attempt  to  reply,  and  another  still  lower  to  Con- 
stance, Mordaunt  passed  from  the  room  without  direct- 
ing a  glance  at  Wiley. 

With  slow  steps  he  traversed  the  long  passage, 
walking  over  prostrate  pillars  of  moonshine,  white 
and  gleaming  as  marble,  thinking  that  of  materials  as 
ghostly  and  unsubstantial  his  life-temple  must  be  built. 

As  he  opened  the  door,  a  silver  scaflfold  was  plainly 


110  COURTSHIP  AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

defined  upon  the  floor.  He  shuddered  to  see  his 
thoughts  thus  shaping  themselves  in  the  night-glory, 
when  he  was  arrested  by  a  touch  so  light  as  to  be 
almost  impalpable.  At  first  he  imagined  that  the 
moonbeams  were  gleaming  on  his  arm  in  the  form  of 
a  fair  and  delicate  hand,  for  there  it  was  on  the  dark 
sleeve  of  his  coat,  just  as  he  had  seen  it  months  be- 
fore in  Kate  O'Brien's  cottage.  He  turned  and  beheld 
the  celestial  countenance  of  Constance  so  near  that 
her  breath  sighed  upon  his  cheek. 

"Constance!"  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  addressed  her 
thus.  It  was  strange  that  while  the  revelation  just 
made  seemed  to  divorce  him  from  mankind,  it  drew 
him  irresistibly  closer  toward  her.  At  any  other 
moment  he  would  have  thought  it  presumption  to 
have  called  her  by  her  own  noble  and  appropriate 
Christian  name. 

"  Come  into  the  conservatory  a  few  moments,"  said 
she,  "unless  you  are  willing  to  throw  aside  a  friend 
as  lightly  as  the  flower  your  foot  is  now  crushing." 

A  flower  had  fallen  from  the  bosom  of  Constance 
under  the  feet  of  Mordaunt,  who  was  unconsciously 
grinding  it  in  the  dust. 

"  I  hope  this  is  not  prophetical,"  cried  Constance  in 
a  very  low  voice,  looking  on  the  defaced  and  mangled 
blossom. 

Mordaunt  followed  the  steps  of  Constance,  like  a 
man  walking  in  a  dream,  back  through  the  passage, 
out  into  the  still  splendour  of  the  night,  down  the 
granite  stairs,  till  he  found  himself  in  a  grotto,  in  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AFRICAN   LIFE.        Ill 

centre  of  which  a  beautiful  fountain  was  throwing  up 
its  sparkling  jets,  which  descended  in  the  form  of  a 
weeping  willow,  with  crystal  boughs  dropping  pearly 
tears  in  a  marble  reservoir. 

Imagination  could  not  conceive  a  more  enchanting 
spot  than  this  "Fairy's  Grotto,"  as  Constance  named 
it. 

When  her  uncle  erected  the  magnificent  mansion 
which  he  now  occupied,  he  allowed  her  taste  to  lux- 
uriate there  in  all  the  prodigality  of  nature  and  all 
the  refinement  of  art.  Mordaunt  had  been  admitted 
before  to  this  lovely  retreat,  and  he  was  familiar 
with  all  its  beauties,  but  now  it  burst  upon  him  with 
a  loveliness  that  seemed  more  than  earthly.  The 
rich  aroma  of  the  flowers  pressed  with  languishing 
sweetness  on  his  senses,  and  the  soft,  monotonous 
murmur  of  the  falling  fountain  mingled  with  the 
sad,  minor  tones  of  his  own  spirit,  making  a  mournful 
but  divine  harmony. 

They  sat  down  on  a  circular  seat  which  surrounded 
the  basin,  and  watched  in  silence  the  diamond  shower 
sparkling  in  the  moonlight  that  turned  every  drop 
into  a  prism,  reflecting  its  radiance.  Some  of  the 
most  beautiful  nymphs  of  mythology  stood  within 
the  shade  of  the  grotto,  and  received  eternal  baptism 
from  the  spray.  There  was  one  of  the  daughters  of 
Danaus,  holding  up  her  bottomless  vase  to  catch  the 
fountain's  waters,  hope  struggling  with  despair  on  her 
beautiful  features,  the  hope  that  her  expiatory  task 
might  yet  be  accomplished.  A  lovely  Bacchante 
lifted  her  ivy-crowned  brow  and  caught  a  silver 


112  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

crown  upon  its  leaves.  A  Flora,  the  embodiment  of 
youthful  beauty  and  grace,  was  represented  as  scat- 
tering flowers  on  the  dewy  grass,  and  all  these  charm- 
ing classical  figures  were  reflected  in  a  mirror  which 
constituted  a  wall  on  one  side,  and  the  willowy  foun- 
tain with  its  diamond  branches  was  reflected  there 
also,  and  two  other  figures  seated  side  by  side  cast 
their  images  on  the  illuminated  sheet  of  crystal,  which 
multiplied,  as  if  by  enchantment,  the  fairy  scene. 

Constance  had  thrown  around  her  a  light  scarf, 
very  airy  in  texture,  but  its  colour  was  silver  gray, 
and  Mordaunt  thought  once  more  of  the  Eveniny  Star. 
But  now  its  rays  seemed  setting  instead  of  rising  on 
the  horizon  of  his  destiny. 

"  I  thank  you  for  this  last  act  of  kindness  and  con- 
descension," said  Mordaunt,  regretting  the  next 
moment  that  he  had  spoken  at  all,  for  it  seemed 
sacrilege  to  break  the  silence,  or  rather  the  music,  of 
the  hour.  "  But  is  it  not  cruel  to  bring  me  here,  that 
I  may  feel  the  more  fully  and  deeply  what  I  fear  I 
have  for  ever  lost  ?" 

"  Why  should  any  blessing,  yours  either  by  pos- 
session or  in  reversion,  be  lost  to  you  now?"  asked 
Constance. 

"You  know  the  curse  that  clings  to  me,  and  yet  ask 
why?" 

"I  have  learned  your  misfortunes,  and,  though 
nobly  sustained  as  they  have  hitherto  been,  they  will 
turn  to  blessings  at  last.  I  rejoice  that  you  had  the 
moral  courage  to  avow  yourself  the  object  of  Wiley's 
dark  insinuations.  He  is  already  baffled,  and  his  malice 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        113 

will  recoil  on  himself.  And  do  you  know  me  so  little 
as  to  believe  that  the  revelations  of  this  night  can 
affect  my  esteem  for  you — that  I  could  be  so  unjust, 
so  cowardly,  and  unkind — that  I  could  visit  on  the 
innocent  the  crime  of  the  guilty,  even  if  the  guilt 
exist?  But  I  have  faith  in  your  father's  innocence, 
because  you  are  his  son.  I  have  faith  that  it  will  yet 
be  made  known  to  the  world,  dark  as  is  the  cloud 
which  now  rests  upon  it." 

"Ten  thousand  blessings  for  this  sublime  faith," 
exclaimed  Mordaunt,  his  countenance  kindling  with 
inspiration,  "  and  ten  thousand  blessings  for  the  con- 
fidence which  has  not  been  shaken  by  this  sudden 
blow.  I  feel  myself  worthy  of  it,  and  yet  I  would  not 
take  advantage  of  it  and  expose  you  to  the  malicious 
observations  of  the  world.  Wiley  will  blazon  abroad 
the  stigma  which  brands  my  name.  By  association, 
your  own  will  become  contaminated.  Your  uncle  will 
sacrifice  me  to  the  god  of  public  opinion.  He  has 
not  the  moral  strength  to  resist  its  influence.  I  should 
expose  you  to  his  displeasure,  and  bring  dissension 
into  a  now  harmonious  household." 

"  I  should  be  unworthy  of  the  blessings  you  have 
just  breathed  upon  me,  if  I  were  not  willing  to  brave 
the  evils  ypu  are  bringing  in  such  dread  array  before 
me.  O,  if  you  knew  how  little  I  care  for  the  opinion 
of  the  world,  when  conscious  of  right  in  my  own  heart, 
you  would  feel  how  inefficient  were  your  arguments, 
how  sophistical  your  reasoning.  The  world,  as  it  is 
called,  one  true  friend  would  outweigh  a  hundred-fold 
in  my  estimation." 
7 


114  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THK 

"For  ray  own  safety,  Constance,  then  be  it.  To 
wish  to  be  more  than  a  friend  to  you  now  would  -be 
the  madness  of  presumption,  and  yet  so  manly  pre 
sumptuous  I  am.  Nay,  so  ungrateful,  that  the  friend 
ship  which  a  short  time  ago  I  valued  as  the  most 
precious  gift  of  heaven,  would  now  seem  ra  cake  of 
stone  to  the  prayer  of  a  craving,  hungry  heart.  No," 
added  he,  with  increasing  excitement,  "  I  cannot  ac- 
cept intercourse  on  such  cold  terms.  I  dare  not  ask 
it  on  any  other.  Therefore,  I  must  leave  you.  1 
knew  there  was  a  gulf  between  us,  but  I  would  not 
see  it ;  I  made  a  bridge  of  flowers  over  it,  and  tried  to 
forget  that  there  was  an  abyss  beneath.  "Wiley  has 
torn  away  the  frail  arch.  God  forgive  him — I  fear  I 
never  can." 

"  You  murmur  at  a  cake  of  stone,"  said  Constance, 
and  again  the  crimson  under-current  so  lately  liberated 
from  restraint  sent  its  waves  to  her  cheek,  "  yet  you 
have  never  asked  for  bread." 

And  the  reserved,  nun-like  Constance  uttered  this 
to  the  man  whose  father  had  perished  on  the  scaffold, 
and  whose  name  was  in  consequence  irretrievably  dis- 
honoured. Yes,  and  far  more,  for  they  sat  for  houra 
in  that  fairy  grotto,  till 

"Like  holy  revealings 
From  innermost  shrines  came  the  light  of  their  feelings."  ' 

Mordaunt  related  all  his  past  history,  including  the 
awful  tragedy  of  his  father's  death.  He  was  then  a 
mere  boy,  but  he  remembered  well  his  mother's  agony 
and  his  sister's  despair.  He  remembered  well  the  last 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AJiiiiUCAN  LIFE.        115 

prison-scene,  when  his  father,  almost  crushing  him  in 
his  arms,  baptized  him  with  tears  of  olood,  as  it  were, 
declaring  his  innocence  in  the  name  of  that  God  in 
whose  presence  he  was  about  to  appear.  Years  of 
darkness  followed,  but  light  dawned  at  last.  His 
mother  was  a  brave,  Christian  woman,  and  grief  did 
not  crush  her.  She  lived  for  her  children.  In  him, 
the  jubilant  spirit  of  youth  at  last  rose  above  the 
gloomy  past,  that  past  which  began  to  appear  as  a 
frightful  dream.  Amid  new  scenes,  surrounded  with 
new  associations,  he  ceased  to  dwell  upon  it,  and,  if 
the  shadow  intruded,  he  resolutely  dispelled  it.  There 
came,  however,  a  time  when  it  rolled  down  upon  him 
with  the  blackness  of  a  thunder-storm,  and  he  bowed 
beneath  its  weight.  It  was  the  night  when  Doctor 
Lewis  entered  his  oi$ce,  and  Wiley  was  witness  of 
emotions  his  malice  too  well  interpreted. 

"I  have  explained  every  thing  to  Doctor  Lewis," 
said  Mordaunt,  "  and  he  is  more  than  ever  my  friend. 
He  has  even  offered  me  a  partnership  in  his  practice, 
and  given  me  the  most  earnest  advice  to  remain." 

"  Remain  1"  repeated  Constance.  "  Surely,  you  have 
not  thought  of  leaving  us  ?" 

"  Since  I  have  discovered  that  I  have  an  enemy,  the 
very  air  I  breathe  seems  contaminated.  But  now  I 
feel  that  I  can  triumph  over  his  malice.  With  the 
hopes  that  now  animate  me,  I  could  face  an  opposing 
world.  At  this  moment  I  would  scarcely  rend  from 
my  life's  history  its  darkened  leaf,  for  on  its  black 
tablet  I  read  in  golden  characters  your  conlidence  and 
faith.  No !  welcome  the  shame,  since  it  Ls  the  back- 


116  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ground  of  glory.    Welcome  the  gross,  for  the  love- 
crown  that  glitters  in  the  future  1" 

Constance  Goldman  did  not  feel  as  if  she  had  made 
any  sacrifice  in  pledging  her  faith  to  Mordaunt.  She 
believed  herself  the  winner  of  a  noble  prize  in  a  heart 
like  his.  Never,  perhaps,  had  a  young  and  inex- 
perienced girl  a  truer  estimate  of  life.  A  brotherless, 
sisterless  orphan,  nature  had  opened  few  channels  in 
which  her  affections  could  flow.  There  was  nothing 
in  her  uncle's  character  to  inspire  the  love  and  rever- 
ence she  longed  to  bestow  on  some  legitimate  object 
She  had  met  no  one  in  the  circles  of  wealth  and  fash- 
ion in  whom  she  felt  the  slightest  interest.  Of  a 
deeply  religious  temperament,  her  heart  lifted  itself 
toward  God  with  a  fervour  and  devotion  unchecked 
by  any  earthly  idol.  In  every^son  and  daughter  of 
sorrow  she  saw  a  brother  and  sister  to  whom  God  had 
appointed  her  a  ministering  spirit.  So  she  went  about 
doing  good,  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  vestal  purity, 
which  made  her  inapproachable  as  she  was  lovely. 
From  the  first  moment  she  beheld  Mordaunt  in  the 
cottage  of  poor  Kate  O'Brien,  she  felt  his  superiority 
to  his  kind ;  on  every  succeeding  interview  she  more 
and  more  esteemed  and  honoured  him;  but  it  was 
not  till  this  evening,  when,  with  the  quickness  of  a 
woman's  perception,  she  read  that  he  was  the  object 
of  Wiley's  malice,  and  at  the  same  time  had  a  vivid 
insight  into  his  heart,  that  her  own  was  awakened; 
and  its  awakening  was  like  the  sun-burst  of  a  smmer's 
day  after  a  morning  of  clouds.  What  if  his  father's 
name  was  a  heritage  of  ignominy  ?  She  cared  not,  since 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        117 

lie  was  pure,  and  of  spotless  fame.  Was  he  not  more 
noble,  more  glorious  in  his  own  underived  excel- 
lence ? 

When  Mordaunt  left  the  grotto,  the  moon  had  set, 
and  the  silver  had  faded  from  the  willow's  watery 
ooughs.  But  clear  and  serene  and  resplendent  shone 
the  Evening  Star  above  his  head. 

On  his  homeward  way  he  reflected  on  his  destiny, 
and  its  whole  aspect  seemed  changed.  Even  the  scaf- 
fold had  lost  its  ignominy,  and  was  exalted  to  the 
grandeur  of  the  cross.  He  wondered  that  he  had  not 
thought  of  it  more  as  the  theme  of  an  incarnate  Deity 
— the  altar  of  a  god-like  sacrifice. 

All  the  influence  of  Constance  was  lost  upon  her 
uncle  in  reference  to  Mordaunt.  He  refused  to  listen 
to  her  persuasions,  to  her  earnest  exhortations  that  he 
would  take  a  noble  stand  above  the  prejudices  of  the 
vulgar  and  the  passions  of  the  proud.  Mordaunt,  the 
son  of  an  executed  criminal,  should  never  more  be  an 
inmate  of  his  house,  an  attendant  on  his  person.  He 
wished  him  no  evil,  he  even  forgave  him  the  deception 
he  had  practiced,  but  all  intercourse  must  cease. 
Poverty  could  be  forgiven,  but  disgrace,  never! 

Constance  and  Mordaunt  both  had  too  lofty  a  sens', 
of  propriety  to  think  of  clandestine  meetings.  She 
resolved  to  wait  till  the  time  of  her  majority,  and 
then,  being  in  possession  of  her  fortune,  and  freed 
from  the  legal  authority  of  a  guardian,  she  could 
openly  avow  and  glory  in  her  choice. 

an  the  meantime,  the  malicious  tongue  of  Wiley 
was  not  silent.  The  history  of  Mordaunt  became  the 


118  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

topic  of  the  day,  and  wherever  he  went  the  eye  of 
curiosity  followed  him.  Many  turned  away  coldly 
who  had  formerly  smiled,  and  some  who  had  just  be- 
gun to  smile,  frowned,  and  withdrew  their  patronage. 
The  artful  misrepresentations  of  Wiley,  uttered  without 
any  apparent  venom  or  design,  were  the  trail  of  the 
serpent,  blighting  the  flowers  of  confidence  and 
esteem. 

The  young  physician  had,  however,  one  pillar  to 
lean  upon,  in  the  firm  friendship  of  Doctor  Lewis, 
firm  as  the  granite,  and  imperishable  as  gold.  While 
his  proud  spirit  writhed  in  secret  at  the  undeserved 
obloquy  darkening  his  young  renown,  he  thought  of 
'the  love  of  Constance,  the  esteem  of  Doctor  Lewis, 
and  felt  himself  rich  beyond  the  common  hopes  of 
man. 

"  Be  strong,  be  patient,"  said  this  excellent  friend ; 
"  be  self-reliant  and  hopeful.  It  is  hardly  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility  that  your  father's  memory  will 
ever  be  cleared  of  the  stain  that  rests  upon  it.  But 
the  cloud  will  in  time  roll  away  from  yourself.  It  is 
only  what  is  inherent  that  is  permanent." 

"  I  have  always  had  a  hope  so  strong  as  to  assume 
the  character  of  certainty,"  replied  Mor Jaunt,  "  that 
God  would  bring  about  a  revelation  which  would  sur- 
round my  father's  memory  with  the  halo  of  martyr- 
dom. I  tremble  when  I  hear  of  the  confessions  of 
dying  criminals — tremble  with  a  vague  expectation 
of  discovering  the  actual  murderer,  in  whose  stead  the 
innocent  and  righteous  was  doomed  to  suffer." 

"It  may  be,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  after  the  lapse 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        119 

of  so  many  years,  it  would  be  little  short  of  the  mira- 
culous. We  must  wait  for  the  great  day  of  revealing, 
when  mere  circumstantial  evidence  will  be  annihilated 
by  the  consuming  fires  of  truth. 

One  night,  as  Mordauut  was  returning  with  Doctor 
Lewis  from  a  professional  visit,  and  passing  through  a 
cross  street,  peopled  by  poverty  and  vice,  lie  was 
arrested  by  a  tumult  on  the  side- walk.  Lights  were 
gleaming  near  the  door  of  a  low  building,  and  several 
figures  were  rushing  out  in  different  directions.  One 
came  in  violent  contact  with  Mordaunt,  at  the  immi- 
nent risk  of  prostrating  him  on  the  pavement. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  is 
the  cause  of  this  violent  tumult  ?" 

"A  man  is  bleeding  to  death  I"  cried  several  voices, 
clamorously.  "Can  any  one  tell  us  where  to  find  a 
doctor,  a  surgeon?  He  can't  live  ten  minutes,  at  this 
rate." 

"  Show  us  the  way,"  said  Doctor  Lewis.  "  Here  are 
two  doctors  at  once." 

The  next  moment,  forcing  their  way  through  the 
crowd,  they  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  bleeding 
man,  and,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  every  form  of 
suffering  and  death,  they  recoiled  with  involuntary 
horror  from  the  spectacle  before  them.  He  lay  ex- 
tended on  his  back,  on  the  bare  floor,  weltering  in  his 
blood.  He  lay  in  a  crimson  pool,  and  the  dark  red 
tide  was  still  gushing  from  his  right  arm,  like  water 
from  a  fountain. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  said  Doctor  Lewis, 


120  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OK,   THE 

even  his  iron  nerves  vibrating  painfully  as  he  gazed 
upon  him. 

"Nothing  but  a  fight,"  answered  a  ruffianly-looking 
bystander.  "  The  man  that  cut  him  ran  off  when  he 
saw  him  bleed  so  dreadfully." 

"Nothing  but  a  fight!"  repeated  Doctor  Lewis, 
sternly ;  "  why  he  must  have  cut  an  artery.  'Tis  a 
life-stroke." 

A  knife  dabbled  in  blood  lay  dripping  on  the  floor. 
Doctor  Lewis  threw  off  his  coat,  seized  the  knife,  and 
stepping,  almost  wading  into  the  bloody  pool,  he 
stooped  down  and  gashed  open  the  flleeve  of  the 
wounded  man.  To  tie  up  a  severed  artery  is  a  diffi- 
cult and  dangerous  operation,  but  with  a  firm  yet 
gentle  touch  he  drew  together  the  issues  of  life,  till 
the  living  fibres  turned,  the  valves  of  the  fountain 
closed,  and  the  victim  was  saved  from  immediate 
death. 

"You  are  not  used  to  such  bloody  work,"  said 
Doctor  Lewis,  looking  at  his  own  and  MorJaunt's 
ensanguined  hands,  after  they  had  laid  their  patient 
on  a  bed,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  administered  the 
customary  restoratives.  "We  might  be  taken  for 
murderers,  indeed,"  added  he,  holding  out  his  arms, 
whose  linen  covering  of  dazzling  white  was  reddened 
with  the  scarlet  dye  of  murder. 

Mordaunt  turned  deadly  pale.  He  remembered 
his  father,  and  the  evidence  that  stained  a  spotless 
life. 

"  He  cannot  live,"  said  Doctor  Lewis.  "  Such  rills 
of  blood  as  have  flowed  from  his  arteries  are  enough 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         121 

to  exhaust  the  energies  of  the  strongest  life.  And 
why  should  we  wish  him  to  live,  only  to  expend  tho 
wonderful  muscular  strength  which  God  has  given 
him  in  scenes  of  violence  and  strife?  I  can  read  in 
every  line  of  his  strongly-marked,  disfigured  face,  a 
history  of  blood  and  crime." 

At  length  the  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  rolling 
them  round  the  apartment,  they  rested  on  the  figures 
that  were  seated  by  the  bedside  with  wonder  and 
terror.  He  looked  upon  their  grave  countenances  and 
bloody  arms,  and  had  they  been  agents  of  vengeance 
instead  of  ministers  of  mercy,  he  could  not  have  ex- 
pressed more  wildness  of  horror  in  his  dim  and  glassy 
glance.  Mordaunt  stood  nearest  him,  his  arms  folded 
across  his  breast,  and  a  dark  shade  resting  upon  the 
sunlight  of  his  eyes.  The  restless  glance  of  the 
patient  became  fixed  on  his  face,  and  it  suddenly 
flashed,  as  if  from  an  inward  blaze.  A  hoarse  shriek 
burst  from  his  lips. 

"  Who  are  you?"  he  cried.  "How  came  you  here? 
I'm  not  dead  yet!  By  the  eternal  God,  I'll  not 
be  tormented  before  my  time !  Away,  I  say !  How 
came  that  blood  on  your  hands?  You  didn't  do  it! 
Hah!" 

"  Come  this  side,  Mordaunt,"  said  Dr.  Lewis,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  He  seems  delirious,  and  there  is  some- 
thing about  you  that  agitates  him.  I  want  him  to  be 
Tery  quiet  ' 

:{ Mordaunt,  Mordaunt !"  groaned  the  man,  "  who 
told  you  his  name  ?" 

Then  pausing,  he  added,  in  a  whisper — 


122  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"Fool!  he  died  upon  the  scaffold!" 

Mordaunt  grasped  the  Doctor's  arm  with  spasmodic 
force.  The  blood  rushed  in  torrents  to  his  brain,  to 
make  room  for  the  wild  hope  that  leaped  into  his  heart. 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  the  Doctor,  laying  his  hand  on 
Mordaunt's  shoulder,  and  fixing  upon  him  his  com 
manding  eyes.  Be  quiet.  He  may  die  witliout  con- 
fessing." 

The  last  words  were  audible  only  to  the  ear  of  Mor- 
daunt ;  but,  low  as  they  were,  they  rung  through  him 
like  a  trumpet's  blast.  He  remained  silent,  while 
every  fibre  of  his  frame  quivered  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

Doctor  Lewis  bent  over  the  wounded  man,  and 
addressed  him  calmty  and  deliberately. 

"  You  have  but  a  few  hours  to  live,  at  the  utmost. 
You  are  going  into  the  presence  of  God,  a  naked, 
guilty,  trembling  soul.  Your  only  hope  of  mercy  is 
in  making  a  full  confession  of  the  crimes  you  have 
committed.  You  cannot  conceal  them.  /  know  them. 
God  knows  them.  The  assembled  universe  will  know 
them. 

The  dying  man  uttered  the  most  horrible  groans ; 
while,  as  if  under  the  influence  of  fascination,  he  kept 
his  lurid,  sunken  eyes  fixed  upon  the  pale  and  agitated 
face  of  Mordaunt. 

"I  can't  die,"  he  murmured;  "I  hav'n't  time  to 
repent.  He  had.  Every  body  that  dies  upon  the 
scaffold  goes  to  Heaven — don't  they  ?  A  few  hours 
— how  many  ?  Tell  me,  or,  by  the  Almighty  God, 
I'll  curse  you  with  my  last  breath  1" 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.   "     123 

"You  cannot  live  more  than  three,  perhaps  not 
one,"  replied  the  Doctor,  with  imperturbable  com- 
posure. "Waste  not  your  breath  in  idle  curses. 
There  was  pardon  for  the  dying  thief — there  may  be 
for  you.  You  cannot  bring  back  the  dead ;  you  may 
justify  their  memory.  For  your  crimes  this  young 
man's  father  perished  on  the  scaffold.  Confess  it — for, 
as  sure  as  you  die  without  clearing  the  innocent,  your 
departing  spirit  will  weave  itself  a  winding-sheet  of 
flames." 

"I  will  confess,"  he  gasped;  "but,  God  of  mercy!  it 
is  too  late — too  late." 

The  Doctor  moistened  the  parched  lips  of  the 
patient ;  then,  having  forced  him  to  swallow  a  reviv- 
ing mixture,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  paper  and 
pencil,  and  seated  himself  with  the  gravity  of  a  ma- 
gistrate by  the  side  of  the  bed.  It  was  not  without 
many  interruptions,  incoherent  ejaculations,  groans 
of  despair,  and  cries  for  mercy,  that  the  wretched 
being,  who  called  himself  Leftridge,  related  what  we 
will  endeavour  to  condense  in  fewer  words. 

More  than  sixteen  years  previous,  Leftridge  and 
Mordaunt  (the  father  of  the  young  physician)  met  as 
travellers,  in  a  crowded  inn.  There  was  another 
stranger  there,  who  boasted  of  the  immense  quantity 
of  gold  in  his  possession.  He  looked  upon  the  red 
wine-cup,  and  prudence  evaporated  with  its  fumes. 
Leftridge  and  Mordaunt  shared  the  same  room,  the 
same  bed.  The  stranger,  with  his  boasted  gold, 
occupied  the  next  apartment. 

Leftridge  could  not  sleep — a  demon  was  at  work 


124  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

in  bis  heart,  hissing  temptation.  He  stole  from  tho 
side  of  his  sleeping  companion,  on  whose  placid  face 
the  moonbeams  were  shining,  (strange  that  man  can 
meditate  deeds  of  guilt,  in  such  a  holy  light !)  Mor- 
daunt's  dagger,  his  travelling  weapon  of  defence,  Ihy 
gleaming  on  the  table,  conspicuous  for  its  gilded 
sheath.  Leftridge  drew  forth  the  blade,  and  touched 
the  edge  with  his  cold  fingers.  The  steel  seemed  to 
burn  into  his  flesh,  chill  as  it  was.  A  linen  handker- 
chief lay  by  its  side  bearing  initials  not  his  own.  lie 
seized  it  also,  and  stole  with  stealthy  steps  into  the 
adjoining  room.  So  sure  was  the  blow  that  but  one 
groan  broken  on  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  that 
groan  echoed  not  beyond  the  walls  of  the  death- 
chamber. 

The  murderer  filled  his  pockets  with  gold  and  fled. 
Mordaunt  was  arrested  as  the  criminal.  His  own  knife, 
found  in  the  gaping  wound,  his  own  handkerchief, 
bathed  in  blood,  some  of  the  gold,  discovered  in  hia 
pocket,  were  circumstantial  evidences  which  no  coun- 
ter testimony  outweighed.  The  absence  of  Leftridge, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  left  at  early  dawn,  as 
travellers  often  did,  excited  little  remark.  Mordaunt 
was  a  stranger.  So  great  was  the  public  indignation,  it 
came  near  setting  at  defiance  the  majesty  of  the  law, 
and  condemning  him  without  judge  or  jury.  The 
sequel  of  his  fate  is  known  to  the  reader  from  our 
previous  narrative. 

Leftridge  wandered  from  place  to  place,  far  from 
the  scene  of  the  two-fold  tragedy,  spending  his  ill-gotten 
gold,  and  trying  to  drown  in  intemperance  the  un 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        125 

quenchable  fires  of  remorse.  Providence  had  brought 
him,  at  his  last  hour,  face  to  face  with  the  son  of  his 
victim,  thus  proving  its  own  retributive  justice. 

Mordaunt  listened  to  this  vindication  of  his  father's 
memory  in  breathless  emotion,  but  no  vindictive  feel- 
ings swelled  in  his  bosom.  That  miserable  being, 
stretched  on  the  very  edge  of  the  burning  crater  of 
doom,  looking  into  the  smoking  abyss  below,  feeling 
the  crumbling  earth  sinking,  giving  way  beneath — 
could  he  look  upon  him  with  any  emotions  save  of 
the  deepest  compassion  ?  His  father  had  died,  sus- 
tained by  faith  and  animated  by  Christian  hope.  His 
memory,  though  stamped  with  public  ignominy,  was 
embalmed  by  the  tears  of  widowed  and  filial  love. 
His  misfortunes  had  canonized  him.  But  Leftridge 
— alas,  for  the  poor  wretch !  What  was  left  for  him 
but  a  fearful  looking  forward  to  future  judgment,  and 
a  name  steeped  in  infamy  ? 

Exhausted  by  the  efforts  he  had  made,  he  lay  pant- 
ing, gasping,  a  cold  and  clammy  moisture  oozing  from 
his  cadaverous  skin.  And  so  he  died. 

Doctor  Lewis  took  immediate  measures  to  publish 
to  the  world  the  circumstances,  which  removed  the 
shadow  that  envy  and  malice  had  rolled  over  Mor- 
daunt's  name.  They  became  the  topic  of  the  day, 
and  the  young  physician  was  exalted  into  a  hero,  the 
hero-son  of  a  martyr-sire.  That  very  night  he  wrote 
to  his  mother — the  next  he  sought  the  dwelling  of 
Constance. 

"My  father's  memory  is  justified,"  said  he,  address- 
ing Mr.  Goldman;  and,  notwithstanding  the  respect 


126  COUBTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

he  wished  to  manifest  to  the  uncle  of  Constance,  his 
manner  was  cold  and  haughty.  "Is  the  social  ban 
removed  from  his  son  ?" 

"  I  regret  exceedingly,  Doctor  Mordaunt,"  answered 
Mr.  Goldman,  in  much  embarrassment,  "  that  circum- 
stances have  compelled  me  to  put  an  unnatural  re- 
straint upon  my  feelings.  For  myself,  I  could  riso 
above  the  prejudices  of  the  world ;  but  as  the  guardian 
of  a  young  lady  of  rank  and  fortune,  I  have  been 
compelled  to  be  circumspect.  We  live  in  a  cold  and 
censorious  world." 

"  I  am  fully  aware  of  that  truth,  sir,"  answered 
Mor'daunt,  with  a  slight  dash  of  bitterness  in  his  tone ; 
but  the  entrance  of  Constance,  now  the  Morning  Star 
of  his  destiny,  dispersed  the  lingering  clouds  of 
haughtiness  from  his  brow,  and  he  remembered 
nothing  but  that  her  faith  ana5  trust  had  been  the  same, 

"  Through  joy  and  through  sorrow,  through  glory  and  shame." 

"Wiley  had  the  audacity  to  call  at  his  office  and 
offer  his  congratulations.  He  extended  his  hand  with 
the  assurance  of  a  welcome  guest.  Mordaunt  folded 
his  arms  and  drew  back  with  stately  reserve. 

"You  can  enter  my  doors  and  sit  down  in  my 
office,"  said  he,  with  a  glance  that  brought  the  hot 
blood  to  Wiley's  usually  cold  cheek,  "  for  they  are 
not  a  part  of  myself;  but  my  hand  is  my  own,  and 
never  shall  be  voluntarily  given  to  a  man  whose  heart 
I  know  to  be  destitute  of  every  warm  and  generous 
feeling.  That  I  bear  no  vindictive  remembrance  of 
the  past,  let  this  action  speak." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        127 

Taking  from  his  pocket-book  a  soiled  and  worn- 
looking  paper,  he  put  it  in  the  hand  of  Wiley. 

"  This  paper,"  he  added,  "  relates  to  yourself.  The 
Stephen  Wiley  there  referred  to  as  the  leader  of  a 
notorious  band  of  counterfeiters  must  be  your  own 
father.  There  are  collateral  proofs  which  I  can  gather 
up,  if  you  will  it,  and  place  in  strong  array  before 
your  eyes.  This  paper  was  found  upon  the  person  of 
Leftridge,  the  murderer,  himself  one  of  that  lawless 
band.  Doctor  Lewis  is  the  only  man  beside  myself 
acquainted  with  this  disagreeable  fact.  He  will  never 
publish  it  to  the  world,  and  I  should  look  upon  my- 
self with  loathing  and  scorn,  if  I  could  imitate  the 
malice  from  whose  evils  I  have  just  been  liberated, 
and  seek  to  cover  you  with  a  father's  shame.  Now 
your  secret  is  safe.  Tear  the  paper  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  if  you  will,  and  let  the  winds  of  heaven  dis- 
perse the  relics." 

Wiley  crushed  the  paper  as  if  with  iron  fingers. 
His  lips  turned  of  ashy  paleness,  while  the  veins  in 
his  forehead  swelled  and  stood  out  like  purple  cords, 
lie  tried  to  speak  and  falsify  the  evidence  of  truth, 
but  the  words  adhered  to  his  palsied  tongue.  The 
astounding  revelation  brought  about  by  such  a  strange 
coincidence  of  circumstances  seemed  so  much  like  the 
retributive  justice  of  heaven,  he  was  struck  dumb  with 
terror,  and  his  coward  eye  quailed  before  the  flashing 
gaze  of  Mordaunt. 

"  I  again  repeat,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  your  secret 
is  safe.  You  know  it  is.  You  know  me  to  be  inca- 
pable of  a  mean  revenge.  And  I  will  add,  that  if  you 


128  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

profit  by  this  bitter  lesson,  if  you  ever  awaken  to  the 
beauty  of  truth  and  the  value  of  friendship,  if  you 
should  offer  your  hand  with  an  honest  heart  in  it, 
then  mine  shall  close  upon  it  with  equal  readiness  and 
cordiality." 

"  You  are  generous,"  exclaimed  Wiley,  in  a  hoarse 
unnatural  voice,  "but  I  cannot  talk  now.  Farewell, 
Mordaunt.  You  will  never  see  me  again,  unless  I  can 
accept  your  offered  conditions.  I  shall  leave  the  city 
immediately.  My  character  is  in  your  hands.  Do 
what  you  will  with  it,  I  shall  never  complain." 

They  parted,  and  years  passed  before  they  met 
again.  When  they  did  meet,  Wiley  extended  his 
hand,  and  Mordaunt  did  not  reject  it.  Magnanimity 
had  triumphed  over  malice.  Wiley  never  became  a 
warm-hearted  or  amiable  man,  for  he  wanted  the 
genial  elements  to  constitute  such  a  character,  but  he 
did  endeavour  to  be  a  just  and  honest  one,  and  he  had 
the  candour  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  owing  to  the 
influence  of  Mordaunt.  He  had  been  a  cold  skeptic 
iu  the  belief  of  the  existence  of  moral  excellence  ;  but 
there  was  a  living  reality,  a  simple  majesty  and  truth 
in  Mordaunt's  virtues,  to  which  his  spirit  bowed  in 
late  but  sincere  acknowledgment. 

And  once  again  Mordaunt  sat  with  Constance  in  the 
"Pairy's  Grotto."  The  fountain  threw  up  its  silvery 
spray  into  the  moonlight,  falling  with  the  same  lulling 
music  in  the  marble  reservoir.  The  beautiful 
daughter  of  Danaus  still  held  her  empty  vase  beneath 
the  waters,  the  lovely  Bacchante  caught  the  same  re 
splendent  crown  upon  her  leafy  brow,  and  the 


JOYS  AND  SORKOWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        129 

graceful  Flora  twined  her  fadeless  garlands  in  tho 
shade. 

Constance,  fair  and  pure  as  these  marble  graces  re- 
posing in  the  moonlight,  and  ten  thousand  times  as 
lovely,  sat  beside  her  husband,  her  eyes  raised  to  the 
night-arch  bending  radiantly  above  them. 

"Do  you  see  that  solitary  star?"  said  Mordaunt, 
taking  her  hand  in  his,  and  raising  it  in  his  toward 
one  whose  rays  were  almost  lost  in  the  full  glory  of 
the  moon.  "  The  first  night  I  ever  met  you,  I  fixed 
my  gaze  upon  that  planet,  and  thoughts,  holy  and  in- 
spiring, rushed  into  my  soul.  The  dread  of  poverty, 
the  fear  of  shame,  melted  away  in  its  divine  effulgence. 
I  saw  you  in  the  cottage.  From  that  moment  you 
became  the  Evening  Star  of  my  destiny,  shining  on 
with  steadily  increasing  brightness  unto  the  perfect 
day." 


180  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 


t  tow  Sisters  anlr       too  Kindts. 


Miss  PHILLIS  MANNERS  was  the  maiden  sister  of 
Mr.  Manners,  and  the  female  guardian  and  governess 
of  his  two  motherless  daughters,  Lelia  and  Elmira. 
One  evening,  Miss  Manners  entered  the  apartment  of 
her  neices,  with  a  decided  air  of  vexation,  and  even 
anger. 

"How  provoking!"  she  exclaimed;  "how  unfor- 
tunate! The  most  mortifying  circumstance  in  the 
world!" 

"What  is  it,  Aunt  Phillis?"  asked  Lelia,  sympa- 
thizingly. 

"Aunt  Phillis  again!"  repeated  the  lady.  "Will 
you  never  learn  to  call  me  Cousin  Phillis  ?  I  have 
told  you  a  hundred  times  I  disliked  that  formal,  old- 
fashioned  title." 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  aunt.  Well,  I  cannot  help  ad- 
dressing you  so  —  I  have  always  called  things  by  their 
right  names,  and  as  you  are  my  aunt,  and  not  my 
cousin,  I  can't  see  the  sin  of  giving  you  the  title 
nature  designates.  You  know  I  haven't  been  with 
you  long  —  I  shall  become  accustomed  by-and-by  to 
your  peculiarities,  and  endeavour  to  conform  to  them. 
Prrfy,  tell  us  what  is  so  provoking?" 

"Your  father  has  just  received  a  letter  from  your 
Uncle  Clements.  He  is  coming  here  to-morrow,  the 
very  day  I  expect  your  Uncle  Banks.  Was  ever  any 
thing  so  provoking  ?" 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        181 

"Provoking,  indeed!"  cried  Elmira,  reflecting,  as 
in  a  mirror,  the  mortified  expression  of  her  aunt's 
face. 

"Dear  Uncle  Clements!"  exclaimed  Lelia,  clasping 
her  hands  joyfully  together.  "I  am  so  glad  he  is 
coming — Aunt  Lydia  told  me  so  much  of  his  good- 
ness, piety,  and  talents,  my  heart  yearns  towards  him. 
Our  mother,  too,  loved  him  very  dearly." 

Miss  Manners  cast  a  withering  look  on  the  glowing 
countenance  of  Lelia. 

"You  forget  his  poverty  and  the  low  society  he 
must  keep,  in  comparison  with  his  brother.  Mr 
Banks  is  come  into  possession  of  a  splendid  fortune, 
and  will  visit  us  in  a  style  suited  to  his  rank.  There 
will  be  a  succession  of  parties  and  entertainments 
while  he  is  here.  We  shall  all  derive  great  conse- 
quence from  his  wealth — but  the  poverty  of  your 
Uncle  Clements  will  weigh  as  much  against  us 
in  the  opposite  scale.  I  never  was  so  vexed  in  my 
life." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  poverty,  produced  by  mis- 
fortune, was  a  crime  and  a  degradation,  before,"  said 
Lelia,  warmly.  "  For  my  part,  I  feel  inclined  to  pay 
him  a  thousand  times  more  respect,  in  his  present 
reduced  circumstances,  than  if  he  were  rolling  in 
affluence." 

"Whatever  your  inclinations  may  be,"  said  Miss 
Manners,  with  dignity,  "you  will  be  careful  not  to 
offend  your  Uncle  Banks,  by  showing  a  preference  to 
Mr.  Clements.  He  is  only  half  brother  to  your 


132  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

mother,  and  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  calling  him 
uncle  at  all." 

"Must  we  call  him  cousin,  too?"  asked  Lelia, 
laughing. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  honour  his  precious  son 
Charles,  who  is  to  accompany  him,  with  that  title," 
replied  her  aunt.  "  But  I  warn  you  against  familiarity 
with  him.  Your  Uncle  Banks  has  a  son,  with  whom 
you  may  be  proud  to  claim  kindred,  and  though  ho 
is  your  cousin,  it  does  not  prevent  the  possibility  of  a 
nearer  connection.  It  would  be  well  to  have  the  pro- 
perty kept  in  the  family.  Young  ladies,  a  great  deal 
may  depend  upon  this  visit  of  your  uncle's.  The  stay 
of  the  last  shall  be  very  short,  if  it  depends  on  my 
influence." 

"  Surely,  aunt — cousin — you  will  not  treat  him  with 
incivility  ?"  said  Lelia — looking  reproachfully  at  her 
silent  sister. 

"  I  shall  not  be  dictated  to  in  my  course  of  conduct, 
Miss  Lelia :  but  whatever  it  is,  I  shall  expect  you  will 
imitate  it.  Your  sister,  I  am  confident,  will  do  so, 
without  any  exercise  of  authority  on  my  part.  Your 
father  leaves  all  household  regulations  to  me,  and  I 
shall  allow  no  interference  in  my  arrangements." 

She  left  the  room,  as  she  spoke,  with  a  raised  head, 
or  rather  a  raised  turban,  for  her  head,  unusually 
small,  was  enveloped  in  such  voluminous  folds  of 
muslin  and  lace,  it  required  some  discrimination  to 
notice  the  face,  surmounted  by  such  a  tremendous 
turret.  The  sisters  were  left  alone,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  faces  for  a  moment,  without  speaking — 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        133 

Leila's  cheeks  burned  with  an  unusual  colour,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  excitement. 

"Thank  Heaven  I"  cried  she,  "that  I  said  nothing 
really  disrespectful  to  Aunt  Phillis — but  from  you, 
Elmira,  I  cannot  withhold  the  expression  of  indignant 
feeling.  Speak  to  me,  sister,  and  say  you  scorn  such 
sordid  views,  and  know  how  to  appreciate  virtue 
itself.  Say  that  you  will  unite  with  me  in  paying 
both  our  uncles  the  respect  and  affection  that  is  due 
to  them — that  you  will  make  no  distinction  in  favour 
of  wealth  or  circumstances.  Think  if  our  dear  mother 
were  alive,  what  she  would  wish  us  to  do,  and  you 
will  never  wound  the  feelings  of  one  who  was  so  dear 
to  her." 

"  You  are  the  strangest  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life, 
Lelia,"  said  Elmira,  coldly ;  "you  make  as  much  fuss 
about  this  old  uncle  as  if  he  were  made  of  gold ;  I 
don't  know  what  we  shall  do  with  him — for  Uncle 
Banks  must  have  the  handsomest  chamber,  and  we 
must  keep  the  next  handsomest  for  company.  Then 
there  is  Cousin  Phillis'  room  and  ours.  The  other 
chambers  are  very5  decent,  but  they  have  no  fire- 
places. He  will  be  obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  one 
of  them.  Cousin  Phillis  never  will  allow  a  bed  to  be 
put  in  one  of  the  lower  apartments." 

"  Has  our  father  no  authority  in  his  own  household, 
that  every  thing  must  be  referred  to  Cousin  Phillis,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  call  her?"  asked  Lelia,  trying  to 
speak  calmly.  "  If  I  find  Uncle  Clements'  comfort  so 
entirely  diregarded,  I  shall  speak  to  him,  and  see  thai- 
he  is  properly  attended  to." 


13-i  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  Father  would  as  soon  cut  off  his  right  hand,  as 
contradict  any  of  Cousin  Phillis'  orders,  I  assure  you," 
answered  Elmira.  "You  are  the  only  person  who 
ever  dared  to  do  it  yet,  and  you  will  be  very  sorry 
for  it.  She  said  before  you  came  home,  she  knew 
Aunt  Lydia  had  spoiled  you,  and  it  is  true  enough. 
You  are  exactly  like  her,  in  thought,  word,  and 
action." 

"  Oh !  that  I  were  indeed  like  her,"  exclaimed 
Lelia,  "for  a  gentler  purer,  holier  being,  never  lived. 
All  my  virtues  are  hers,  all  my  faults  my  own.  Let 
me  never  hear  her  reproached  for  follies  or  sins 
which  are  the  legitimate  offspring  of  my  own 
heart." 

Unable  to  repress  the  tears  which  this  unkind  allu- 
sion to  a  relative  so  tenderly  beloved,  and  so  recently 
lost,  excited,  Lelia  left  the  room,  feeling  more  keenly 
than  she  had  ever  done  before,  that  between  her  sister 
and  herself  there  was  not  one  feeling  or  principle  in 
common.  All  that  is  necessary  to  state  of  the  pre- 
vious history  of  these  two  young  sisters,  may  be  ex- 
plained in  a  few  words.  Deprived  in  childhood  of 
-their  mother,  they  were  separated  immediately  after 
her  death,  and  placed  under  influences  as«opposite  as 
pole  to  pole.  Aunt  Lydia,  a  maiden  sister  of  Mrs. 
Manners,  received  the  orphan  Lelia  from  her  dying 
mother,  as  her  own,  and  as  such  she  educated  and 
cherished  her,  till,  her  death  making  her  a  second  time 
an  orphan,  she  returned  to  her  father's  house.  Elmira 
remained  at  home,  under  the  care  of  Miss  Phillis  Man- 
ners, who  assumed  the  charge  of  her  brother's  house- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.         135 

hold,  with  an  authority  as  absolute  and  undisputed  as 
the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 

Mr.  Manners  was  one  of  those  good-natured  men, 
who  always  avoid  trouble  and  contention,  and  who 
have  not  moral  courage  enough  to  follow  up  the  prin- 
ciples they  profess  to  admire.  He  believed  his  sister 
one  of  the  best  managers  in  the  world,  probably  from 
the  bustle  attending  all  her  movements,  and  thought 
himself  very  fortunate  in  having  so  careful  and  dis- 
creet a  guardian  for  his  daughter.  He  regretted  that 
Lelia  did  not  enjoy  equal  advantages,  for  Aunt  Lydia 
was  so  quiet  and  unpresuming,  and  made  so  little 
parade  of  her  own  good  deeds,  and  he  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  egotism  and  display  of  his  sister,  he 
imagined  that  Aunt  Lydia  was  one  of  those  passive 
characters  who  exercised  but  little  influence  in  her 
own  household.  Had  he  reflected  a  little  on  the 
great  laws  of  nature,  he  would  have  remembered 
that  the  most  powerful  influences  are  silent  and  often 
unseen.  The  rays  that  illumine  the  immensity  of  the 
universe,  as  silently  as  brightly  execute  their  glorious 
mission.  The  dews  that  refresh  the  sultriness  of 
nature,  steal  silent  and  unseen  from  their  secret 
dwelling-place,  and  "  teach  mankind  unostentatious 
charity."  But  Mr.  Manners  never  reasoned  from 
analogy,  indeed,  he  seldom  reasoned  at  all,  and  it  is 
not  strange  that  the  unobtrusive  virtues  of  Aunt 
Lydia  escaped  his  worldly  observation.  True,  when 
Lelia  returned,  he  would  have  thought  her  very 
graceful,  lovely,  and  amiable,  had  not  his  acute- 
minded  sister  discovered  so  many  blemishes  in  her 


136  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

and  such  superior  excellences  in  Elmira.  He  con- 
cluded, as  usual,  that  she  was  a  better  judge  than 
himself,  and  her  opinion  was  considered  infallible. 

Miss  Phillis  Manners,  alias  Aunt  Phillis,  alias  Cousin 
Phillis,  would  have  been  in  the  full  sweep  of  her 
glory,  on  the  day  of  Mr.  Banks'  arrival,  had  not  the 
expectation  of  Mr.  Clements'  visit  cast  its  dark 
shadow  before.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  that  all  her 
anxiety  was  disinterested,  or  that  it  was  for  the 
aggrandizement  of  her  nieces  alone,  she  was  hoping, 
and  toiling,  and  planning. 

Mr.  Banks  was  a  widower,  and  as  she  had  passed 
her  vernal  morn  and  summer  noon  in  maiden  single- 
ness of  heart,  she  was  resolved  that  the  quietude  of 
her  autumnal  eve  -should  be  spent  in  the  shadow  of 
the  myrtle  bower.  Notwithstanding  her  sincerity  to 
her  brother,  and  the  truths  her  oft-consulted  mirror 
breathed  of  her  withering  beauty,  she  fancied  every 
one  else  must  be  labouring  under  an  optical  illusion, 
and  imagined  herself  still  in  the  spring-time  of  youth. 
It  was  a  great  source  of  vexation  that  she  was  com- 
pelled to  own  her  once  dark,  but  now  bleaching  locks, 
thus  detracting  from  the  juvenility  of  her  appear- 
ance, but  she  consoled  herself  with  the  idea  that  a 
turban  was  a  most  becoming  and  oriental  style  of 
head-dress,  admirably  in  keeping  with  the  erectness 
and  dignity  of  her  figure.  This  day  she  appeared 
dressed  with  elaborate  elegance — on  her  white  turban 
she  wore  a  single  artificial  white  rose,  placed  over  her 
left  car,  partly  twisted  in  her  long,  flowing  curls; 
pearl  ornaments  on  her  neck,  and  a  robe  of  delicate, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.         137 

lilac- coloured  silk,  fitted  closely  to  her  really  fine 
form.  No  wrinkle  was  ever  allowed  to  mar  the  out- 
line of  her  dress,  and  could  she  have  exercised  as 
arbitrary  a  dominion  over  her  face,  it  would  have 
been  as  smooth  as  Parian  marble.  She  had  been 
practising  a  kind  of  eager  smile,  with  which  to  wel- 
come the  East  India  nabob,  as  she  had  great  faith  in 
first  impressions.  Elmira,  who  implicitly  followed 
her  aunt's  directions,  was  also  much  adorned,  but 
Lelia  made  no  alteration  in  the  mourning  garb  she 
wore  in  memory  of  Aunt  Lydia.  Miss  Phillis  told 
her  that  she  had  never  looked  so  shocking  in  her 
life,  that  her  eyes  were  as  heavy  as  lead,  and  her  com- 
plexion as  pale  as  ashes.  She  did,  indeed,  look  pale, 
for  she  was  agitated  in  the  prospect  of  meeting  so 
many  kindred  she  had  never  seen,  and  in  the  dread 
that  their  visit  would  be  a  source  of  domestic  trial  t,o 
her,  determined  as  she  was  not  to  yield  her  princi- 
ples of  right  to  the  tyranny  of  her  aunt,  or  the  ridicule 
of  her  sister. 

"lie's  come — Uncle  Banks  is  come!"  exclaimed 
Elmira,  who  had  been  watching  at  the  window,  alter- 
nately with  her  aunt,  at  least  two  hours.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  whole  household  was  in  a  bustle — a  splendid 
carriage  stopped  at  the  door — a  footman  let  down  the 
steps,  with  as  much  ceremony  as  if  a  king  were  about 
to  descend.  Aunt  Phillis  stood  on  the  threshold, 
smiling,  and  courtseying,  and  trying  to  blush,  as  u 
large,  red-faced  gentleman,  wrapped  in  a  blue  cloak, 
slowly  alighted,  and  walked  up  the  flag-stones,  breath- 
ing audibly  at  every  step.  A  tall,  straight;,  sandy- 


138  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

haired  young  man  followed  him,  in  whom  Elmira  im- 
mediately discovered  a  striking  resemblance  to  the 
picture  of  Prince  Albert,  and  who  was  dressed  in 
as  princely  a  style  as  our  republican  costume  will 
allow. 

"Welcome,  a  thousand  times  welcome,"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Phillis,  sinking  lower  and  lower,  while  she  ex- 
tended both  her  hands  to  the  short-breathed  gentle- 
man, who  came  panting  towards  her. 

"  Thank  you — how  d'ye  do  ?  Hope  to  see  you  very 
well,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  as  soon  as  he  recovered 
his  breath  sufficiently,  shaking  her  hand  up  and  down, 
something  in  the  style  of  a  pump-handle.  "  Ha — this 
is  my  niece,  is  it  ?  Blooming  as  a  peach,  glad  to  see 
your  uncle,  hey?"  catching  Elmira  under  the  chin, 
and  giving  her  a  salute  that  echoed  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  ante-room.  "  This  is  my  son  Joe — quite 
a  man  grown — just  like  his  father — chip  of  the  old 
block— ha  1" 

Lelia,  who  had  shrunk  back  in  the  first  rush  of 
welcome,  now  tremblingly  approached  her  uncle.  He 
was  the  first  of  her  mother's  relatives  she  had  ever 
Been,  except  Aunt  Lydia,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with 
undefinable  emotion. 

"What  little  baggage  is  this?"  cried  Mr.  Banks, 
giving  her  at  the  same  time  a  smothering  embrace. 
"  Just  like  her  mother.  This  must  be  Liddy's  child. 

Lelia  saw  a  tear  trembling  in  the  corner  of  his 
clear,  gray  eye,  and  she  forgot  for  a  moment  the 
roughness  of  his  manners,  and  the  singularity  of  his 
dialect 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        139 

As  soon  as  they  entered  the  sitting-room,  Mr.  Banks 
sank  down  into  a  chair,  as  if  quite  exhausted,  calling 
for  a  cushion  for  his  feet  in  no  very  gentle  tone.  Miss 
Phil! is  sprang  to  the  sofa,  and  catching  up  the  cush- 
ions, placed  them  under  his  feet  like  a  lapwing. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  Excuse  me — troubled  with 
the  gout — dreadful  twinges — great  invalid — poor  ap- 
petite— be  better  by-and-by." 

Lelia  thought  it  strange  to  hear  a  man,  with  such 
round,  ruddy  cheeks  and  robust  frame,  complaining 
of  ill-health,  and  she  could  not  help  smiling  to  hear 
her  aunt  declaring  that  he  did  indeed  look  like  an  in- 
valid, and  she  feared  the  journey  had  been  too  much 
for  him. 

Cousin  Joe  seemed  as  bashful  and  reserved  as  his 
father  was  free  and  easy,  and  seating  himself  at  a  re- 
spectful distance,  communed  with  his  own  thoughts. 
Placed  in  such  a  luxurious  attitude,  Mr.  Banks  gradu- 
ally recovered  the  composure  of  his  muscles,  which 
had  been  dreadfully  distorted,  nodded  and  smiled  at 
his  nieces,  and  calling  Lelia  to  him,  made  her  sit 
down  on  his  knee,  and  patted  her  on  the  head  like  a 
little  child. 

"  Good  girl,"  said  he ;  "  Liddy  told  me  all  about 
you.  Don't  be  afraid  of  your  uncle.  Eough  outside 
— nothing  but  the  bark — smooth  kernel  inside." 

Lelia  smiled,  and  began  to  think  she  should  like 
her  uncle,  in  spite  of  his  rough  outside,  but  Aunt 
Phillis  was  not  at  all  pleased  that  Lelia  should  be 
placed  in  the  foreground  of  the  picture,  and  drawing 
Elmira  towards  him,  she  said,  in  a  playful  tone,  "you 


140  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

must  not  slight  my  pet — you  don't  know  how 
anxiously  she  lias  watched  your  coming.  She  has 
been  almost  crazy  to  see  you." 

"Fine  girl,  too,  cried  Mr.  Banks,  pinching  her 
cheeks;  "good  healthy  colour.  Got  any  sweethearts, 
hey?  Must  look  sharp — see  if  they've  got  the  chink. 
Can't  live  without  it — oils  the  springs — keeps  them 
agoing — hey  ?" 

Here  he  put  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  shook 
with  inward  laughter  for  several  moments ;  then 
opening  his  mouth,  the  sound  began  to  roll  out  in 
echoing  peals,  which  Aunt  Phillis  thought  proper  to 
echo  again,  more  faintly,  and  Elmira  fainter  still. 
Lelia  alone  looked  grave,  and  her  gravity  seemed  to 
increase  Mr.  Banks'  mirth,  who  continued  to  laugh 
till  he  was  obliged  to  hold  his  own  sides. 

"  Can't  help  it,"  said  he ;  "  never  could  stop — does 
one  good — helps  digestion — troubled  with  the  dys- 
pepsia— obliged  to  diet." 

Lelia  thought  when  she  saw  her  uncle  at  the  supper- 
tablef  complaining  of  the  poorness  of  his  appetite,  yet 
enting  heartily  all  the  time,  requiring  a  dozen  things 
which  were  not  on  the  table;  keeping  the  servants 
running  in  every  direction,  and  Aunt  Phillis'  eyes 
flying  from  dish  to  dish  in  ludicrous  perplexity,  trying 
to  anticipate  his  wishes,  that  he  was  the  strangest  in- 
valid she  ever  saw.  lie  was  very  particular  about 
eggs,  an  indispensable  ingredient  of  all  his  meals.  At 
first  they  were  too  hard,  then  too  soft — again,  there 
was  a  crack  in  the  shell,  through  which  some  drops 
of  water  had  penetrated.  At  length  he  had  the  boil- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        141 

ing  water  brought  to  the  table,  and  taking  out  his 
watch,  cooked  them  to  his  apparent  satisfaction.  Poor 
Aunt  Phillis  sat,  without  eating  a  mouthful,  endeav- 
ouring to  look  pleased,  though  ready  to  burst  with 
vexation,  for  she  prided  herself  upon  the  superiority 
of  her  cookery,  and  on  this  occasion  no  luxury  had 
been  spared,  which  could  tempt  the  most  fastidious 
taste.  She  had,  however,  one  source  of  consolation. 
The  evening  was  already  advanced,  and  Mr.  Clements 
had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  She  could  not  help 
hoping  some  fortunate  accident  had  detained  him,  and 
that  he  would  not  be  present  to  obstruct  the  incense 
she  was  preparing  for  the  golden  calf  she  had  set  up 
as  her  idol.  Night  came  on,  and  Mr.  Banks,  pleading 
excessive  fatigue  and  gouty  pains,  was  ushered  up 
stairs  into  the  most  sumptuous  apartment  the  house 
afforded,  and  Aunt  Phillis  drew  a  deep  inspiration,  as 
if  relieved  from  the  visitation  of  a  nightmare. 

"Very  pleasant  gentleman  your  uncle  is,"  said  she, 
looking  at  Elmira.  "Bather  particular  in  his  ways — 
but  that  is  owing  to  his  ill- health.  So  perfetly  original. 
How  do  you  like  your  Cousin  Joseph  ?  I  think  him 
one  of  the  most  perfect  gentlemen  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  find  him  very  interest- 
ing," replied  Elmira ;  "  but  he  does  not  seem  inclined 
to  talk  much.  He  seems  very  distant,  for  a 
cousin/' 

"  You  caunot  expect  so  much  familiarity  from  one 
of  his  great  expectations,  as  from  an  inferior  person," 
said  Aunt  Phillis.  "  He  cannot  but  feel  his  own  con- 
sequence." 


142  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

Lelia  smiled,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  Aunt 
Phillis  interrupted  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  break  yourself  of  that  saucy 
habit  of  smiling  at  my  remarks,  Miss  Lelia ;  I  assure 
you,  I  think  it  very  impertinent." 

"  Dear  aunt " 

"  Dear  aunt  again — you  called  me  dear  aunt  at  the 
supper- table  three  times,  as  if  in  defiance  of  my  pro- 
hibition, and  on  purpose  to  draw  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Banks." 

The  lumbering  sound  of  wheels  approaching  the 
door,  arrested  the  attention  of  all,  and  the  clinking 
sound  of  the  falling  steps,  convinced  them  that  some 
one  was  descending. 

"It  must  be  Uncle  Clements,"  exclaimed  Lelia, 
eagerly  opening  the  door,  while  Aunt  Phillis  and 
Elmira  exchanged  glances  of  undisguised  chagrin. 

"  You  need  not  ring  the  bell,"  said  Aunt  Phillis, 
seeing  the  motion  of  Lelia's  hand  ;  "  the  stage-driver 
will  attend  to  him." 

But  the  mandate  came  too  late,  for  a  merry  peal 
rang  through  the  hall,  as  Mr.  Clements  and  his  son 
entered  the  house.  The  lamps  that  lighted  the  pas- 
sage most  brilliantly  in  honour  of  Mr.  Banks,  threw 
their  full  blaze  on  their  advancing  figures,  and  Lelia, 
on  whom  the  whole  burden  of  welcome  seemed  to 
rest,  felt  a  glow  of  delight  diffused  over  her  whole 
heart,  in  tracing,  even  then,  in  the  mild  lineaments  of 
her  uncle's  face,  a  resemblance  to  her  beloved  Aunt 
Lydia. 

"  Oh,  what  a  contrast  1"  thought  she,  as  she  looked 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  A5IERICAX  LIFE.         143 

at  her  Cousin  Charles.  The  next  moment  she  was  in 
her  uncle's  affectionate  embrace — as  affectionate,  but 
far  less  energetic,  than  Mr.  Banks'  high-pressure  greet- 
ing. Miss  Phillis  Manners  received  them  with  stately 
civility,  which  Elmira  tried  to  imitate,  though  she 
could  not  help  thinking  that  if  her  Cousin  Joe  did 
resemble  Prince  Albert,  her  Cousin  Charles  was  vastly 
handsomer,  and  more  engaging  in  his  appearance. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  complete  suit  of  black,  which 
corresponded  well  with  his  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  so 
was  the  father,  but  the  coat  of  the  latter  was  rusty  and 
threadbare,  and  his  whole  apparel  that  of  a  decayed 
gentleman. 

"And  these  are  my  two  nieces,"  said  Mr.  Clements, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other,  with  moistened  eyes, 
"my  sister's  children!  Is  it  possible?  How  difficult 
it  is  to  realize  your  blooming  womanhood!  Charles, 
you  have  often  heard  me  speak  of  their  mother;  here," 
turning  to  Lelia,  "  is  her  living  picture." 

A  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  produced  a  sudden 
silence.  Miss  Phillis  started  up  in  alarm,  when  Mr. 
Banks'  footman  opened  the  door,  with  a  half  comic, 
half  tragic  countenance. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Miss  Phillis.  "Is  Mr. 
Banks  ill?  Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

"No,  ma'am!'' he  replied;  "but  he  says  the  sheets  are 
damp,  and  will  give  him  the  rheumatiz.  He  wants 
them  changed,  if  you  please,  directly.  He's  walking 
about  as  fast  as  he  can  for  exercise,  till  it's  done,  to 
keep  from  catching  cold." 

"  Tell  him  the  sheets  have  been  doubly  and  trebly 


144  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

aired,"  answered  she,  in  a  raised  tone.  "I  am  remark- 
ably careful  about  such  things.  There  is  no  possible 
danger  of  taking  cold." 

"It  won't  do  any  good  to  toll  him  so,  ma'am,"  said 
the  man,  grinning.  "  When  he  once  gets  a  notion 
into  his  head,  you  might  as  well  try  to  move  the  globe 
as  to  get  it  out  of  him.  He  won't  sleep  to-night,  unices 
you  humour  him  about  the  sheets." 

Miss  Phillis  left  the  room  with  great  alacrity ;  but 
the  manner  in  which  she  closed  the  doors,  showed  she 
was  not  altogether  pleased  with  Mr.  Banks'  original 
ways. 

Lelia  began  to  feel  very  uneasy  about  her  uncle's 
accommodations  for  the  night.  She  saw  he  looked 
pale  and  fatigued,  and  seemed  oppressed  with  a  dry 
cough.  Charles  watched  his  father's  countenance 
with  deep  anxiety,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  not 
retire,  adding,  that  he  was  still  too  much  of  an  invalid 
not  to  practice  some  self-indulgence. 

Lelia  had  not  exchanged  a  word  with  her  aunt 
upon  the  subject ;  she  had  put  off  the  evil  hour  as 
long  as  possible.  It  could  not  be  deferred  any  longer, 
and  hearing  her  footsteps  descending  the  stairs,  she 
rose  with  precipitation  and  left  the  room,  telling  her 
uncle  that  she  would  have  a  room  immediately  pre- 
pared for  his  reception.  She  met  her  aunt  on  the 
stairs,  whose  clouded  brow  would  have  terrified  her 
from  any  purpose,  in  which  her  own  gratification  was 
concerned. 

"  Cousin  Phillis,"  said  she,  trying  to  propitiate  her, 
ny  giving  her  the  name  she  loved,  "Uncle  Clements 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        145 

is  very  much  fatigued,  and  wishes  to  retire.  I  sup- 
pose he  will  occupy  the  blue  chamber." 

"  The  blue  chamber !"  repeated  Aunt  Phillis.  "  An  d 
what  right  have  you  to  think  that  he  will  occupy  the 
blue  chamber?  The  very  best  chamber  in  the  house." 

"Because,"  said  Lelia,  gathering  courage  as  she 
proceeded,  "because  there  is  no  other  unoccupied 
sleeping-room,  sufficiently  comfortable  at  this  season 
of  the  year.  There  is  the  one  which  has  been  appro- 
priated to  Uncle  Banks,  certainly  as  handsome  as  the 
blue  chamber.  Then  there  is  father's,  and  yours,  and 
sisters,  and  my  own — all  warm  and  pleasant.  The 
others  have  no  fire-places,  and  you  would  not  surely 
assign  them  to  an  invalid,  such  cold  nights  as  these." 

Aunt  Phillis  gave  Lelia  a  look  which  had  often 
made  others  quail,  but  she  returned  it  with  an  un- 
daunted glance. 

"  Silence  is  assent,"  cried  she,  springing  down  the 
steps.  "I'll  tell  Peggy  t?  kindle  a  fire  in  the  blue 
chamber." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Aunt  Phillis,  shaking  her  fore- 
finger at  her  from  the  platform  on  which  she  stood, 
with  the  gesture  of  a  Pythoness;  "if  you  do,  you'll 
repent  it  in  dust  and  ashes." 

Lelia  paused.  Her  spirit  was  roused.  She  felt 
that  she  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  her  father's 
house,  and  had  a  right  to  command,  when  her  father's 
reputation  for  justice  and  hospitality  was  thus  en- 
dangered. She  feared,  however,  a  scene  of  disgrace- 
ful violence,  which  might  reach  her  uncle's  ears, 
and  though  almost  despising  herself  for  the  act,  she 
9 


146  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   T1IE 

condescended  to  plead  and  reason.  She  went  back 
to  where  her  aunt  stood. 

'•'  You  do  not  reflect,  aunt,  what  a  strange  appear- 
ance it  will  have — such  a  marked  distinction  between 
two  brothers.  The  very  servants  will  talk  of  it, 
and  report  it  to  our  neighbours.  We  shall  be  con- 
demned by  all  as  mercenary  and  unkind." 

"I  don't  care  if  we  are,  miss,"  retorted  she,  "it's 
none  of  their  business,  nor  yours  either.  As  to 
the  chamber  I've  allotted  to  him,  I've  no  doubt  it's 
a  palace  to  what  he  ever  slept  in  before.  What'n 
he,  I  should  like  to  know — a  poor,  penny-stripped 
fellow,  a  hanger-on  of  rich  relations,  a  codger  worth 
nothing  but  the  coat  on  his  back,  and  that  almost 
out  at  the  elbows,  that  he  should  be  served  so 
daintily?  He  had  no  business  to  stick  his  nose 
where  he's  not  wanted.  If  he  don't  like  his  accommo- 
dations, he  may  go  away,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

Aunt  Phillis  paused  to  take  breath,  as  a  person 
drinking  a  glass  of  soda  sometimes  stops  from  the 
rapidity  of  the  effervescence — but  the  angry  fluid 
continued  to  flow  from  her  eyes. 

"I  will  appeal  to  my  father,"  said  Lelia,  "and, 
thank  heaven  !  here  he  comes." 

Mr.  Manners  at  this  moment  opened  the  street  door, 
and  looked,  with  a  little  trepidation,  on  the  theatrical 
figure  of  his  sister,  standing  erect  upon  the  stairs,  the 
rose  over  her  left  ear  trembling  and  tossing  as  if  in- 
stinct with  life,  a  symptom  with  which  he  was  very 
familiar;  for,  like  certain  animals,  when  excited  by 
passion,  she  had  a  vibratory  motion  of  the  ears 


JOYS  AXD  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.         147 

Lelia  ran  to  her  father,  and  putting  her  arm  in  his, 
drew  him  towards  his  sister,  in  spite  of  his  evident 
reluctance. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  she,  "  Aunt  Phillis  is  not  willing 
that  Uncle  Clements  should  have  a  comfortable  room 
to  sleep  in.  Uncle  Banks  has  the  green  chamber, 
with  a  blazing  fire,  and  poor  Uncle  Clements  is  to  be 
put  in  the  north-east  corner  of  the  house,  without  a 
particle  of  fire,  or  even  curtains  to  his  bed.  Is  it 
right,  father  ?  is  it  kind  ? 

Poor  Mr.  Manners  was  so  unaccustomed  to  exercise 
•  any  decision  of  his  own  in  household  affairs,  and 
feared  so  much  the  keen  edge  of  his  sister's  tongue — 
he  found  himself  in  a  most  unpleasant  dilemma.  He 
hated  scenes — he  wanted  to  get  along  with  as  little 
trouble  as  possible. 

"Brother,"  said  Miss  Phillis,  "we've  lived  very 
peaceably,  till  this  girl  came  back  to  give  me  her  im- 
pertinence from  morning  till  night.  I  will  not  bear 
it — if  she's  to  be  mistress,  I'll  quit  the  house.  I  leave 
you  to  decide." 

She  uttered  this  in  a,  low  tone,  and  a  kind  of  bit- 
ter smile,  a  thousand  times  more  fearful  than  her 
frown. 

"Tsho!  Phillis— don't  talk  in  that  way,"  stam- 
mered Mr.  Manners,  "  she  don't  mean  any  disrespect 
to  you;  there's  some  misunderstanding,  I  dare  say. 
Lelia,  your  aunt  will  see  that  every  thing  is  right ;  I 
always  leave  such  matters  to  her,  and  it  is  proper  that 
you  should  do  so— there's  a  plenty  of  room  in  the 
house — no  difficulty " 


148  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

Ashamed  of  his  want  of  moral  resolution,  he  has- 
tened into  the  parlour,  whither  his  sister  followed 
him,  with  a  majestical  step,  leaving  Lelia  alone  on 
the  stairs.  So  completely  overwhelmed  was  she 
with  disappointment,  shame,  and,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, with  indignation  too,  that  she  sat  down,  and 
leaning  against  the  banister,  covered  her  face  and 
wept  like  a  child. 

"  What  will  they  think  of  us  ?"  said  she  to  herself, 
"what  will  they  think  of  me?  It  was  I  who  told 
them  I  would  order  a  room  to  be  prepared.  They 
will  think  it  is  my  selection,  and  despise  me  in  their 
hearts — and  there  is  Uncle  Banks,  with  his  great 
ruddy  face  and  vigorous  frame,  in  his  sumptuous 
apartment,  issuing  his  orders  with  the  authority  of 
the  Grand  Lama.  Oh!  the  omnipotence  of  gold!" 

Absorbed  in  these  bitter  reflections,  and  hearing 
only  the  sound  of  her  own  stifled  sobs,  she  was  not 
aware  of  approaching  footsteps  till  they  were  close 
beside  her,  when,  looking  up,  she  beheld  her  uncle 
ascending  the  stairs,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  son, 
and  preceded  by  Peggy,  the  chambermaid,  who 
looked  ashamed  of  the  office  she  was  performing. 
Her  uncle  paused  as  he  passed,  and  laying  his  hand 
tenderly  on  her  head,  exclaimed,  "God  bless  thee,  my 
child." 

Her  Cousin  Charles,  too,  caught  her  hand,  and 
pressing  it  warmly,  said,  "Good  night,  my  dear 
cousin." 

The  words  were  nothing  in  themselves,  but  there 
was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  in  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        lA-<j 

glance  of  his  dark,  penetrating  eye,  that  seemed  to 
say,  "Thou  hast  no  part  or  lot  in  this  matter." 

Could  they  have  overheard  the  conversation  re- 
specting them  ?  It  was  possible  that  the  door  might 
have  been  left  ajar,  and  Aunt  Phillis'  voice  was  shrill 
in  her  anger.  She  knew  not  that  she  ought  to  derive 
comfort  from  this  supposition,  since  it  exposed  her 
aunt  and  her  father  to  such  opprobrium,  but  she 
could  not  help  encouraging  the  idea,  and  retired  to 
her  chamber,  soothed  by  the  remembrance  of  her 
uncle's  blessing,  and  her  cousin's  affectionate  "  good 
night." 

She  was  permitted  to  remain  alone  some  time,  for 
Elmira  was  closeted  with  her  aunt,  probably  listening 
to  her  wrathful  account  of  the  events  of  the  evening. 
Lelia  rejoiced  at  this  circumstance,  as  she  could  in 
stillness  and  solitude  commune  with  her  own  excited 
spirit.  Upon  reflection,  she  was  not  pleased  with  her 
own  conduct.  Principle  had  guided  her  actions,  but 
passion  had  mingled  its  base  alloy  with  the  pure  gold 
of  her  upright  intentions.  She  trembled  to  think  of 
the  unchristian  feelings  in  which  she  had  indulged. 

"  God  forgive  me !"  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands 
over  the  Bible,  which  she  had  opened  and  commenced 
to  read,  preparatory  to  her  nightly  rest,  "  for  the  evil 
thoughts  of  this  night.  I  have  hated  my  aunt,  de- 
spised my  father  and  sister,  and  triumphed  in  my  own 
conscious  superiority.  Perhaps  if  I  had  displayed 
more  meekness,  her  stubborn  will  might  have  yielded. 
Uncle  Clements  looks  like  a  Christian.  He  has  the 
evangelical  countenance  of  Aunt  Lydia,  her  mild 


150  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

benignant  smile.  No  bitterness  dwells  in  his  heart 
I  will  try  to  banish  it  from  mine." 

"When  Elmira  entered  the  apartment,  accompanied 
by  her  aunt,  who  always  remained  a  while  in  her 
nieces'  room,  before  retiring  to  her  own,  Leila's  head 
rested  placidly  on  the  pillow,  and  her  eyelids  were 
gently  closed.  Aunt  Phillis  held  the  candle  over  her 
to  see  if  she  were  really  asleep.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  the  moisture  yet  glittered  on  her  eyelids ; 
but  her  soft,  regular  breathing,  indicated  the  peaceful- 
ness  and  depth  of  her  slumbers.  Young  eyelids, 
steeped  in  tears,  close  heavily  in  sleep,  and  Lelia's 
self-communion  and  self-humiliation  had  diffused  a 
quietude  over  her  troubled  soul,  and  hushed  her  pas- 
sions into  rest.  It  would  seem  impossible  for  any  one 
to  look  upon  her,  in  her  innocence  and  purity,  and 
cherish  vindictive  feelings  towards  her ;  but  the  very 
contemplation  of  this  innocence  and  sweetness  only 
added  fuel  to  Aunt  Phillis'  ire. 

"Impudent  little  minx,"  muttered  she,  "I  wonder 
how  she  dares  to  sleep  I" 

It  is  hardly  uncharitable  to  suppose  that  she  would 
not  have  been  sorry  if  a  stray  spark  had  fallen  on  her 
muslin  night-cap,  and  scorched  the  bright  locks  that 
•wandered  over  her  brow.  Aunt  Phillis  sat  down  the 
candle,  seated  herself  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  placing 
her  feet  on  the  fender,  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  said  she,  at  length,  drawing  a 
large  shawl  over  her  shoulders.  "I  am  glad  I  told 
them  to  keep  up  a  fire  in  Mr.  Banks'  room  to-night 
If  he  should  get  the  gout  in  his  stomach,  he  might 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        151 

die,  and  I  wouldn't  have  him  die  for  a  thousand 
dollars,  before " 

She  stopped,  for  she  found  she  was  thinking  aloua. 
and  became  conscious  Elmira  was  listening,  for  she 
laughed  aloud. 

"  I'm  sure  there  does  not  seem  much  danger  of  his 
dying,  with  his  red  face  and  stout  body,"  said  she. 
"  Uncle  Clements  looks  like  a  shadow  to  him.  But 
really,  Cousin  Charles  is  very  handsome,  and  seems 
very  much  like  a  gentleman,  too.  He  is  not  dressed 
meanly,  either — and  looks  proud  enough,  though  he 
is  so  poor.  Don't  you  think  he  is  handsome,  aunt  ?" 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  him,"  replied  she 
sharply;  "I  don't  want  to  hear  his  name,  or  his 
father's  either.  I  wish  they  were  both  in  Nova 
Zembla." 

"They  might  as  well  be  in  Nova  Zembla,  as  the 
place  they  are  in  now,"  thought  Elmira,  "  for  all  the 
comfort  they  get  in  it." 

But  she  was  prudent  enough  not  to  express  this 
idea.  She  began  to  take  off  the  ornaments  from  her 
hair,  and  while  engaged  in  this  operation  before  the 
mirror,  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  her. 

"Was  mother  very  handsome,  Cousin  Phillis?" 
asked  she,  twisting  a  string  of  pearls  round  her 
fingers,  again  and  again. 

"What  a  question!"  repeated  Aunt  Phillis.  "She 
looked  well  enough,  I  believe — nothing  extraordinary. 
Why?" 

"  P^cause  every  one  says  Lelia  is  the  image  of  her, 
as  if  t  were  the  greatest  compliment  in  the  world.  I 


152  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

wonder  who  /am  like — for  I  am  not  in  the  least  like 
Lelia." 

"You  are  said  to  resemble  we,"  said  Aunt  Phillis, 
drawing  up  her  neck  with  a  self-complacent  air ;  "  I 
heard  Mr.  Banks  say  there  was  a  striking  resem- 
blance." 

"Now,  aunt,  you  know  he  never  said  any  such  a 
thing,"  replied  Elmira,  deeply  mortified;  "he  said 
there  was  a  family  resemblance,  and  that  was  all. 
How  can  you  say,  aunt,  I  look  like  you  ?  There  isn't 
a  feature  in  our  faces  alike — and  then  you  look  so 
much  older!" 

Elmira  forgot  her  fear  of  her  aunt,  in  her  wounded 
vanity,  or  she  would  never  have  dared  to  breathe  the 
hint  that  she  thought  her  older  than  herself,  or  less 
nandsome. 

"Keally,  Miss,"  cried  Aunt  Phillis,  giving  the  fender 
a  push  against  the  fire-place  as  she  spoke ;  it's  a  great 
insult  to  be  said  to  resemble  me,  is  it  ?  I  am  not  so 
old  or  so  ugly,  as  to  be  ashamed  to  look  in  the  glass 
with  any  one.  Really,  these  bread  and  butter  Misses 
think  any  body,  who  has  arrived  at  years  of  dis- 
cretion, is  as  old  as  Methuselah,  and  ugly  too,  forsooth. 
Well,  the  world  has  got  to  a  strange  pass,  when  little 
girls  not  only  think  themselves  wiser  and  better,  but 
younger  and  handsomer  than  any  body  else." 

She  took  up  the  candle  with  a  jerk,  gave  the  fender 
another  push,  and  walked  out  of  the  apartment  in  a 
highly  acidified  state  of  feeling. 

"  Look  like  her,  indeed !"  said  Elmira,  examining 
herself  critically  in  the  looking-glass;  "the  old  irighti 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        153 

She  might  have  been  dag  out  of  the  ruins  of  Hercu 
laneum,  for  all  the  youth  and  heauty  she  possesses 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  ridiculous  vanity  ?" 

Elrnira  was  not  conscious  that  it  was  vanity  equally 
ridiculous,  which  reigned  in  her  own  breast,  and 
caused  a  dislike  to  her  aunt,  for  the  resemblance 
which  she  had  pointed  out,  which  all  her  injustice  to 
Lelia,  and  coldness  and  incivility  to  her  uncle,  had 
failed  to  inspire.  Alas!  for  poor  human  nature. 

The  next  morning,  Mr.  Banks  and  his  son  break 
fasted  in  their  own  apartment,  and  almost  all  the  ser- 
vants in  the  household  were  put  in  requisition,  to 
satisfy  his  capricious  desires. 

Mr.  Clements  and  Charles  took  their  seats  at  the 
breakfast-table,  but  the  pallid  complexion  of  the 
former  indicated  that  no  refreshing  slumbers  had 
repaired  his  enfeebled  frame.  As  Mr.  Manners  ob- 
served the  delicacy  of  his  appearance,  his  slight  appe- 
tite, and  that  he  was  repeatedly  obliged  to  put  down 
his  coffee,  to  suppress  a  rising  cough,  his  conscience 
upbraided  him  for  his  pusillanimous  conduct,  and  the 
image  of  his  wife,  once  tenderly  loved,  seemed  to  rise 
before  him,  in  the  person  of  her  neglected  brother. 
There  was  a  gravity,  too,  on  the  fine  brow  of  his 
nephew,  Charles,  which  he  construed  into  a  silent 
lebuke.  Then  Lelia  looked  sad,  and  he  was  ashamed 
to  meet  her  usually  loving  glance.  His  sister  ap- 
peared in  one  of  her  sour  moods,  and  Elmira  some- 
what sullen.  Altogether  he  had  a  very  uncomfortable 
breakfast,  and  though  he  was  glad  when  it  was 
over,  he  did  not  feel  better  satisfied  with  himself 


154  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

when  seated  with  the  same  group  around  the  fire- 
side. . 

The  entrance  of  Mr.  Banks  and  his  tall  son  created 
a  great  sensation.  Aunt  Phillis  sprang  to  arrange 
his  cushions,  and  made  every  one  move  from  their 
places  to  give  him  the  best  seat  by  the  fire,  and  the 
most  luxurious  chair.  He  presented  a  most  imposing 
spectacle  in  his  morning  costume,  wrapped  in  a  wad- 
ded robe  de  chambre  of  silver  gray,  lined  with  scarlet, 
a  turban  of  yellow  silk,  white  fur  moccasins,  and 
gloves  of  similar  materials.  He  nodded  familiarly  to 
all,  as  he  sank  down  into  his  cushions  in  a  true 
oriental  style,  winked  at  Sfiss  Phillis,  chucked  Lelia 
under  the  chin,  and  slapped  Charles  on  the  shoulder, 
whose  gravity  gave  place  to  ill-suppressed  mirth  at 
his  uncle's  extraordinary  figure. 

"I  hope  you  rested  well  last  night,"  said  Miss 
Phillis ;  "  that  you  found  your  room  comfortable." 

"  Rested  like  a  king,"  replied  he ;  "  warm  as  toast ; 
chilled  at  first  by  damp  sheets ;  soon  got  over  it ;  all 
right  at  last.  How  are  you,  brother? — look  rather 
pale.  Sleep  well,  hey?" 

"  I  did  not  rest  well,"  answered  Mr.  Clements ;  "  I 
have  a  difficulty  of  breathing,  which  often  compels  me 
to  walk  during  the  night.  I  feared  I  should  disturb 
the  household  by  so  doing." 

"Oh,  uncle!"  exclaimed  Lelia — "and  were  you 
obliged  to  do  so  last  night?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  distress  you,  my  child,"  said 
he,  taking  her  hand  in  his ;  "  but  I  walked  my  room 
the  greater  part  of  the  night,  and  as  I  know  it  must 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        155 

be  unpleasant  to  those  who  may  be  contiguous  to  me; 
and  as  I  perceive  it  is  not  convenient  to  remain 
longer,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  must  leave  you  this 
evening." 

"  Oh,  uncle  1"  again  ejaculated  Lelia,  giving  her 
father  a  look  that  spoke  volumes. 

"  Must  not  think  of  such  a  thing,"  stammered  Mr. 
Manners ;  "  perfectly  convenient — very  happy  to  see 
you — fear  you  haven't  been  as  comfortable  as  you 
should." 

"What's  that  you  are  talking  of— going  away?" 
interrupted  Mr.  Banks.  "Sha'n't  do  any  such  thing. 
Not  convenient!  Saw  a  room  fit  for  a  prince  close  to 
mine;  not  a  soul  in  it.  Sleep  there  to-night.  Walk 
till  morning — won't  wake  one.  Go  away  ! — nothing 
but  pride.  Hate  to  be  outshone,  hey  ?  Empty  pockets 
ache  near  full  ones." 

Here  he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  jingling 
some  gold  and  silver,  began  one  of  his  interminable 
laughs. 

Miss  Phillis  saw  that  it  was  necessary,  to  redeem 
her  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Banks,  to  treat 
his  brother  with  more  civility.  She  condescended 
to  make  some  apology  for  the  mistake  of  the  pre- 
ceding night,  and  promised  to  prepare  the  apart- 
ment which  Mr.  Banks  desired  for  him,  if  he  would 
remain. 

Thus  authorized,  Mr.  Manners  became  quite  elo- 
quent, and  Lelia's  eyes  pleaded  more  eloquently 
than  all  their  words.  Mr.  Clements  could  not  resist 


156  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

their  mute  appeal,  and  declared  his  willingness  to 
remain. 

Cheerfulness  was  restored,  and  even  Miss  Phillis 
appeared  amiable ;  for  the  conviction  that  she  had 
acted  right,  though  forced  into  the  path  of  duty, 
gave  a  sweetened  expression  to  her  face,  which 
elicited  the  evident  admiration  of  Mr.  Banks,  and 
added,  in  consequence,  to  her  own  self-elation. 

A  week  passed  away,  during  which  time  the  two 
uncles  and  their  sons  became  completely  domesti- 
cated in  the  family  of  Mr.  Manners.  Mr.  Banks 
continued  to  assume  the  most  amusing  airs  of  superior 
grandeur,  sported  a  most  magnificent  wardrobe,  flirted 
with  Aunt  Phillis,  and  pinched  and  kissed  her 
nieces — while  Mr.  Clements,  mild,  dignified  and  in- 
tellectual, wore  the  same  thread-bare  coat,  and  the 
same  nap-worn  hat.  Aunt  Phillis,  before  whose 
eyes  visions  of  wedded  pomp  and  splendour,  bright 
as  if  called  up  by  the  wand  of  the  genii,  were  con- 
stantly floating,  scarcely  noticed  his  presence,  as, 
according  to  her  interpretation,  he  seemed  too  con- 
scious of  his  own  insignificance  to  force  himself 
upon  the  observation  of  any  one.  Cousin  Joe  was 
still  reserved,  but  as  Elmira,  according  to  her  aunt's 
instructions,  paid  him  the  most  marked  attention, 
he  attached  himself  more  and  more  to  her  society, 
and  it  seemed  more  than  probable  that  a  double 
wedding  might  take  place.  Lelia,  who,  in  her  pure 
singleness  of  heart,  thought  not  of  conquests  or 
weddings,  felt  a  delight  in  the  companionship  of 
her  Cousin  Charles,  that,  succeeding  the  dearth  ot 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        157 

all  congenial  feelings,  had  the  power  of  enchant- 
ment. The  books  which  she  had  read  alone,  and 
which  had  enthralled  her  with  the  master-spell  of 
genius,  acquired  a  double  fascination,  since  they 
had  discoursed  of  their  excellencies.  He  had  a  finely 
modulated  voice,  and  when  he  read  aloud,  she  dis- 
covered that  the  dullest  author  had  charms  unknown 
before.  Lelia  was  very  fond  of  drawing,  and  she 
now  took  unwonted  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  this 
accomplishment,  for  Charles  had  the  painter's  eye, 
as  well  as  the  poet's  tongue.  And,  in  their  hours 
of  closer  intimacy,  when  withdrawn  from  the  bust- 
ling circle  too  much  occupied  with  their  own  inter- 
ests to  interfere  with  them,  they  sat  near  Mr.  Cle- 
ments' side,  who  led  them  on  to  themes  of  high  and 
holy  import,  and  thought  and  feeling  came  up  from 
the  innermost  depths  of  the  soul,  and  brightened 
or  darkened  in  the  speaking  eye — it  was  then  that 
Lelia  learned,  that,  while  music,  painting,  and  poetry 
gave  grace  and  beauty  to  his  mind,  a  rich  vein  of 
philosophy,  and  a  still  richer  vein  of  religion,  ran 
like  golden  ore  through  the  whole  texture  of  her 
cousin's  character.  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in 
her  life.  Though  it  was  winter,  and  the  trees  were 
leafless,  and  the  ground  bleak  and  bare,  she  seemed 
surrounded  with  the  verdure  of  the  aroma  of  per- 
petual summer.  All  above  her  was  sunshine,  all 
beneath  was  flowers — for  the  affections  of  her  ardent 
heart,  which,  since  her  Aunt  Lydia's  death,  had  been 
yearning  for  some  legitimate  object,  on  which  to  ex- 
ercise their  tenderness,  had  found  one  worthy  of  all  their 


158  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

strength  and  fervour,  and  on  which  they  expanded 
with  unconscious  warmth.  But  this  is  a  working- 
day  world,  and  life  has  realities  which  often  force  us 
from  the  lovely  idealities,  which  hang  their  beautiful 
drapery  over  the  machinery  of  our  existence.  Lelia 
had  one  serious  source  of  anxiety  in  the  rnidst  of 
her  new  felicity — her  uncle's  coat;  she  could  not 
bear  to  see  his  dignified  figure  clouded  by  such  a 
rusty  garment.  She  was  at  first  troubled  that 
Charles  should  be  so  much  better  dressed  than  his 
father,  fearing  that  a  tinge  of  selfishness  tarnished 
the  lustre  of  his  virtues ;  but  her  uncle  had  removed 
this  fear,  by  accidentally  mentioning  that  the  ward- 
robe of  Charles  was  replenished  by  a  friend,  to  whom 
he  was  willing  to  be  under  obligations,  trusting  that 
he  would  be  able  to  repay  them,  by  the  exercise 
of  his  own  talents,  when  he  was  once  established  in 
the  world.  Her  Aunt  Phillis  was  in  a  high  state 
of  preparation  for  a  large  entertainment  in  honour 
of  Mr.  Banks  and  his  son.  Lelia  was  distressed  at 
the  thought  of  her  Uncle  Clements  appearing  at  it 
in  his  shabby  suit.  She  would  have  begged  her 
father  to  present  him  a  new  one,  but  remembering 
the  scene  about  the  bed-chamber,  she  dreaded  a 
similar  refusal. 

"What  a  shame  1"  thought  she,  "that  Uncle  Banks 
should  be  revelling  in  affluence,  and  suffer  his  brother 
to  wear  such  poor  apparel!"  I  should  think  pride,  if 
no  better  feeling,  would  incite  him  to  a  more  just  and 
generous  conduct." 

An  unexpected   circumstance  favoured   her  secret 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        159 

wishes.  Her  father  had  promised  Elmira  and  herself 
a  set  of  jewels,  when  they  first  appeared  in  the 
raiments  of  womanhood.  The  fulfilment  of  this 
promise  had  been  deferred  from  time  to  time,  though 
Elmira  often  reminded  him  of  it.  Lelia,  in  the  com- 
parative seclusion  of  her  life,  sighed  for  no  such  deco- 
rations, and  now  her  mourning  dress  precluded  them. 
Mr.  Manners,  finding  himself  in  a  munificent  vein,  in 
consequence  of  the  brilliant  prospects  opening  through 
his  rich  brother-in-law,  gave  them  each  the  money 
requisite  for  the  purchase,  and  telling  them  to  make 
their  own  selection,  left  them,  that  they  might  consult 
their  aunt  upon  the  occasion. 

Lelia  followed  him  with  blushing  earnestness. 
"  Dear  father,"  said  she,  "  I  thank  you  more  than  I 
can  express  for  your  kindness.  Yet  I  dare  to  ask  for 
an  additional  proof  of  your  goodness.  Would  you  be 
displeased  if  I  appropriated  this  money .  to  another 
purpose  than  the  jewels.  I  am  in  mourning  now,  and 
would  rather  not  wear  them.  Yet,  if  this  is  a  gift  to 
me,  and  I  arn  permitted  to  use  it  as  I  would  wish,  you 
will  make  me  very  happy." 

"  \Vho  ever  heard  of  a  young  girl  that  did  not  want 
jewels  before?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Manners,  half  incredu- 
lous of  the  correctness  of  his  hearing. 

"What  other  purchase  do  you  wish  to  make?  I 
thought  your  wardrobe  was  well  supplied." 

"  And  so  it  is,"  replied  Lelia,  twisting  her  father's 
guard-chain  round  her  trembling  fingers,  for  she  feared 
he  would  question  her  too  closely — "but — if  you  will 
allow  me  to  employ  the  money  in  the  way  I  like  best, 


100  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

I  will  make  no  unworthy  use  of  it.  I  will  do  nothing 
which  your  own  heart  will  not  approve.  Say  yes, 
dear  father,  and  do  not  ask  me  to  tell  you  any  thing 
more." 

Lelia  had  such  a  beseeching  way  with  her,  it  was 
impossible  for  any  one  but  Aunt  Phillis  to  resist  her. 
Mr.  Manners  was  touched  by  her  disinterestedness. 
Perhaps  his  rnind  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  purpose, 
and  being  ashamed  that  he  had  not  anticipated  her,  he 
forbore  to  ask  her  further  questions. 

"You  are  a  strange  child,"  said  he,  smiling,  "but  I 
believe  I  must  trust  you  this  time.  Do  what  you  like 
with  it.  It  is  your  own." 

Lelia  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  gave 
him  at  least  half  a  dozen  kisses ;  then  running  to  her 
uncle's  room,  where  he  usually  sat  reading  at  this 
hour,  she  knocked  for  admittance.  She  did  not 
realize  the  delicacy  of  her  office  till  she  stood  before 
him,  with  a  hue,  deep  as  that  of  convicted  guilt,  dyeing 
her  cheeks. 

"  What  petition,  or  confession,  do  those  blushes 
herald  ?"  said  he,  laying  down  his  book,  as  she  en- 
tered. 

"It  is,  indeed,  a  petition,  uncle,  but  I  know  not  how 
to  word  it ;  I  fear  you  will  be  offended,  and  I  could 
not  brook  your  displeasure." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  possible  for  you  to  do  any  thing 
to  offend  rne,"  answered  he,  taking  her  hand  in  both 
his — "nor  do  I  think  I  could  rei'use  any  petition  you 
might  offer,  'even  were  it  half  of  my  kingdom.'  " 

"Then  take  this  trifle,"  said  she,  putting  the  paper 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         161 

which  contained  the  money  in  his  hand,  and  clasping 
bis  fingers  tightly  around  it,  "  and  let  me  see  my  dea.' 
uncle  at  Aunt  Phillis'  grand  fete,  as  she  calls  it,  in  a 
new  suit,  which  he  must  wear,  in  honour  of  his,  per- 
haps, too  presumptuous  niece." 

She  dared  not  look  in  his  face,  and  as  he  did  not 
speak  immediately,  she  feared  he  was  offended,  and 
that  the  pride  of  poverty  rebelled  against  the  offering, 
but  a  tear,  which  fell  upon  the  hand  which  elapsed  his, 
convinced  her  that  his  silence  was  not  that  of  haughti- 
ness or  resentment. 

"  I  can  say,  with  your  favourite  Miranda,  that  '  I'm 
a  fool  to  weep  at  what  I'm  glad  of,' "  cried  he  at 
length,  "for  I  do  prize  your  gift,  my  Lelia,  beyond 
all  words.  Not  that  I  attach  much  value  to  a  new 
coat  after  all,  but  the  feelings  which  prompted  the 
act,  sanctify  the  offering  in  my  eyes.  I  know  you  will 
not  love  me  more  than  you  do  in  this  old  suit,  which 
I  must  wrap  up  in  lavender  and  sweet-smelling  shrubs, 
as  a  memento  of  my  visit  here — but  strangers  look 
at  the  coat,  and  not  at  the  man.  There  are  a  great 
many  Aunt  Phillises  in  the  world,  and  very  few 
Lelias." 

Lelia  felt  so  happy  at  the  successful  accomplish- 
ment of  her  wishes,  that  she  went  warbling  down 
stairs  like  a  bird,  and  actually  danced  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  the  horror  of  Aunt  Phillis,  who  thought 
it  an  unpardonable  sin  for  any  one  to  deviate  from  the 
straight  forward  and  perpendicular  lines  of  utility  and 
decorum. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Elmira  asked  her  sister 
10 


162  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

if  she  did  not  intend  to  go  with  her,  in  the  morning, 
to  purchase  the  jewels. 

"  Lelia  don't  care  about  jewels,"  said  Mr.  Manners, 
significantly,  "she  is  a  girl  in  ten  thousand." 

Lelia  began  to  examine  her  work-box  very  indus- 
triously, and  pretended  not  to  hear  what  they  were 
saying. 

"I  should  not  be  surprised,"  said  Elmira,  laugh- 
ingly, "  if  she  put  her  money  out  at  interest,  or  in  tho 
saving  banks,  she's  such  a  utilitarian." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  going  to  establish  a  charity  school," 
cried  Aunt  Phillis,  with  a  sneer.  Mr.  Banks  not  hap- 
pening to  be  present,  she  thought  she  might  relax  a 
little  from  her  amiability. 

"  To  whatever  use  she  has  appropriated  it,"  said  Mr. 
Clements,  "she  will  receive,  not  only  thirty,  but  sixty, 
nay  an  hundred  fold." 

Charles,  who  sat  beside  his  cousin,  took  up  a  spool 
of  thread  from  her  work-box,  and  appeared  to  be 
scrutinizing  its  quality  most  earnestly,  but  he  was  in 
reality  watching  her  downcast  face,  and  thinking  it 
was  scarcely  a  merit  in  Lelia  to  sacrifice  personal 
ornaments,  since  she  was  in  herself  so  lovely  and  so 
loveable.  He  knew  the  purpose  to  which  she  had 
devoted  her  father's  gift,  and  he  longed  to  tell  her  of 
the  gratitude  and  admiration  she  had  inspired,  but  he 
would  not  wound  her  modesty  by  confessing  a  knowl- 
edge of  her  disinterested  goodness. 

"  Are  you  going  to  take  lessons  in  sewing,  Charles?' 
asked  Cousin  Joe,  unexpectedly  breaking  silence.  "  I 
should  judge  so,  by  the  interest  you  manifest  for  that 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         168 

work-box."  It  was  the  first  witticism  Cousin  Joe  had 
attempted  to  make,  and  every  one  laughed — Aunt 
Phillis  seemed  ready  to  fall  into  convulsions,  for 
Joe  was  an  object  of  her  homage,  inferior  only  to  his 
father. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  give  a  minute  description 
of  Aunt  Phillis'  splendid  fete.  It  had  the  elaborate 
display  and  ceremony  usual  on  such  occasions,  but 
seldom  is  a  fashionable  party  graced  by  such  figures 
as  Mr.  Banks  and  Aunt  Phillis  presented  to  the  ad- 
miring eye.  He  wore  a  coat  and  small  clothes  of 
superb  black  velvet,  relieved  by  a  vest  of  the  deepest 
crimson,  composed  of  the  same  rich  materials.  White 
silk  stockings,  and  golden  knee-buckles ;  voluminous 
shirt-ruffles,  and  multitudinous  rings,  distinguished 
the  man  of  wealth  from  the  inferior  throng.  As  Aunt 
Phillis  promenaded  up  and  down  the  saloon,  leaning 
on  his  arm,  she  believed  herself  the  envy  of  every 
female  heart,  as  well  as  the  admiration  of  every  manly 
eye.  She  wore  on  this  occasion,  which  she  thought 
but  the  prelude  of  a  nuptial  festival,  a  dress  of  white 
satin,  trimmed  with  blonde,  a  gossamer  turban,  pro- 
fusely trimmed  with  pearls  and  flowers,  among  which 
the  orange  blossom  bloomed  with  prophetic  sweetness. 
Lelia  could  have  laughed  at  her  aunt's  vehement  affec- 
tation of  juvenility,  but  she  remembered  that  she  was 
a  moral  and  immortal  being,  and  sighed  to  see  her 
thus  twining  with  roses  and  gems  the  sepulchre  of 
youth.  She  saw  her  sister's  neck  and  arms  glittering 
with  jewels,  and  she  did  not  repine,  for  her  eye  rested 
on  her  Uncle  Clements,  and  she  would  not  have  ex- 


164  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

changed  her  feelings  for  the  diamonds  of  Golconda. 
How  well  he  looked  in  his  new  suit  of  deep  black  1 
How  she  admired  the  soft  shadows  of  silver  gray  that 
stole,  like  a  mist,  over  his  jetty  hair !  How  her  heart 
throbbed  as  she  met  his  affectionate  smile,  his  grate- 
ful, approving  glance ! 

Mr.  Clements  had  another  silent  admirer.  It  was 
no  other  than  Mr.  Manners.  He  had  been  watching 
his  daughter's  countenance;  and,  following  the  direc- 
tion of  her  eyes,  he  could  not  help  sympathizing  \vith 
her  enthusiastic  emotions.  The  freshness  and  sensi- 
bility of  life's  earlier  days,  when  her  mother  hung 
upon  his  arm  a  young  and  confiding  bride,  came  back 
upon  him.  He  forgot  the  hardening  lessons  the  world 
had  taught  him,  his  pusillanimous  submission  to  his 
sister's  arbitrary  sway — he  was  once  more  a  man  and 
a  father.  Drawing  near  her,  he  was  about  to  tell  her 
that  he  had  discovered  her  secret,  and  that  she  need 
not  fear  his  anger,  when  he  saw  Charles  anticipate 
him.  The  young  man  bent  down  and  talked  to  her 
in  a  low  voice,  and  she  answered  him  in  the  same 
tone.  Moreover,  there  was  an  expression  in  the 
young  man's  eyes  very  different  from  what  cousins 
are  wont  to  wear,  and  Lelia's  colour  deepened,  and 
flitted,  and  resolved  at  last  into  that  roseate  hue,  which 
is  said  to  be  emblamatic  of  something  more  than  a 
cousin's  love. 

"  I  must  look  to  this,"  thought  Mr.  Manners,  "  he  is 
a  fine  young  fellow — but  he  is  too  poor  to  think  of 
marrying.  I  wish  he  were  Mr.  Banks'  son,  for  Lelia's 
sake." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        165 

The  father  was  once  more  merged  in  the  man  of  the 
world.  Nature  yielded  to  Gold.  ...» 

Aunt  Phi  His  was  too  much  excited  that  night  to 
close  her  eyes  in  sleep.  Mr.  Banks  had  done  every 
thing  but  make  a  downright  offer  of  himself.  He  had 
invited  her  and  Elrnira  to  accompany  them  home, 
telling  her  that  he  wanted  her  to  see  his  house  and 
grounds — to  show  her  in  what  style  he  lived.  She  was 
to  select  a  building  spot  for  his  son,  who  was  to  have 
an  establishment  equal  to  Aladdin's  palace — and  over 
that  establishment,  Elmira  was  destined  to  preside. 
The  gray,  wavering  light  of  dawn,  saw  Aunt  Phillis 
still  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  her  future 
grandeur.  She  then  sank  into  a  kind  of  extatic  doze, 
in  which  she  beheld  Mr.  Banks'  gold  knee-buckles 
glittering  at  her  feet,  where  he  had  prostrated  him- 
self, in  the  act  of  surrendering  to  her  his  heart,  his 
hand,  and  his  fortune. 

The  time  drew  near  for  the  departure  of  the  two 
uncles.  Aunt  Phillis  and  Elmira  were  so  much  occu- 
pied in  arranging  their  apparel  for  the  anticipated 
visit,  they  had  no  leisure  to  notice  the  evident  de- 
jection of  Lelia,  or  if  they  had,  they  would  have 
attributed  it  to  envy  at  their  superior  good  fortune. 
->  "  Sorry  for  Lelia,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  patting  her  on 
the  head.  "  Good  girl — pretty  girl — wish  I  had  room 
in  the  carriage  for  you — why  not  go  with  Unle  Cle- 
ments ? — Ashamed  to  ask  you  ?  Charles  going  away. 
Be  so  lonely — what  say,  brother,  hey  ?" 

"  That  my  poor  home  will  be  transformed  into  an 
Eden  bower,  with  such  a  gentle,  ministering  spirit 


166  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

there.  Bat  what  says  my  dear  niece?  Would  she 
consent  to 'such  a  sacrifice?  Charles  has  received  a 
commission  which  will  take  him  immediately  to  a 
foreign  laud.  I  shall  be  indeed  most  solitary." 

"Oh!  willingly,  gladly  will  I  accompany  you," 
cried  Lelia,  "  if  my  father  will  consent." 

That  consent  was  not  easily  obtained  ;  but  when  he 
considered  that  Charles  was  to  be  absent,  and  the 
danger  he  feared  would  be  thus  averted,  his  greatest 
objection  was  removed.  Another  very  strong  one 
remained,  the  want  of  female  companionship.  This 
was  obviated  by  Mr.  Clements'  description  of  his 
housekeeper — a  most  motherly  and  estimable  woman ; 
and  who  would  prove  a  sufficient  guardian  for  his 
young  niece, 

"  There  are  very  few  poor  men,"  said  Mr.  Clements, 
"  in  the  possession  of  such  a  blessing,  as  this  faithful 
and  attached  friend.  She  has  remained  with  me 
during  all  my  misfortunes,  serving  me  from  attach- 
ment, that  looks  for  no  reward  beyond  the  exercise  of 
its  allotted  duties." 

Mr.  Manners  at  length  consented  that  Lelia  should 
accompany  him,  upon  condition  of  a  speedy  return. 
The  departure  of  the  travellers  was  deferred  for  some 
days,  in  consequence  of  an  unexpected  movement  on 
the  part  of  Cousin  Joe.  He  insisted  that  he  could  not, 
and  would  not  start  till  his  union  was  consummated 
with  Elmira,  with  whom  he  seemed  every  moment 
more  enamoured.  Elmira,  notwithstanding  the  chill- 
ing influence  of  Aunt  Phillis'  worldly  maxims  and 
example,  had  some  feelings  true  to  nature  lingering 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        167 

in  the  depth  of  her  heart.  She  thought  she  would  not 
feel  so  reluctant  to  this  marriage,  for  reluctant  she 
unaffectedly  was,  though  she  had  used  all  the  arts  of 
her  sex,  to  allure  him, — if  Charles  were  not  present. 
Aunt  Phillis  thought  upon  the  whole  that  it  would  bo 
the  height  of  gentility  to  have  the  wedding  take  place 
on  the  morning  of  their  journey,  and  then,  on  their 
return,  celebrate  the  nuptials  by  a  large  wedding 
party.  Mr.  Manners  was  well  pleased  with  the  match, 
and  as  all  the  higher  powers  were  propitious,  Elmira 
thought  it  best  to  smile  and  be  propitious  too. 

Just  before  the  wedding,  Aunt  Phillis  took  Elmira 
aside,  and  after  a  long  preamble  about  the  importance 
of  commencing  the  married  life  with  grace  and  pro- 
priety, said,  "Remember,  my  dear,  that  there  is  a 
great  deal  in  the  name  you  will  bear;  that  is,  there  is 
a  fashionable  and  unfashionable  style  of  addressing  a 
married  woman.  You  must  not  allow  any  one  to 
call  you  Mrs.  Elmira  Banks,  or  young  Mrs.  Banks — 
but  Mrs.  Joseph  Banks.  That  will  be  a  sufficient 
distinction.  When  the  senior  Mr.  Banks — when /am 
married,  (there  is  no  use  in  speaking  in  inuendoes,)  I 
intend  to  be  called  simply  Mrs.  Banks.  Remember, 
rny  dear,  Mrs.  Joseph  Banks." 

Poor  Aunt  Phillis,  she  was  already  trembling,  at 
the  idea  of  being  styled  old  Mrs.  Banks,  and  seeking 
to  avert  the  impending  calamity.  Lelia  beheld,  with 
unspeakable  agitation,  the  preparations  for  her  sister's 
nuptials.  She  knew  she  did  not  love  her  future  bride- 
groom, and  that  the  gold  for  which  slie  \v<\s  about  to 
sacrifice  the  truthfulness  of  nature,  and  the  bloom  of 


168  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

youth — would  never  fill  the  aching  void  felt  by  the 
craving  heart,  too  late  made  sensible  of  its  capacities 
for  happiness. 

"  God  has  no  blessing  for  such  unhallowed  vows," 
said  she  to  herself,  as  she  stood  pale  and  tearful  by 
her  sister's  side,  during  the  nuptial  ceremony.  When 
the  benediction  was  pronounced  and  the  bride  ready 
to  receive  the  congratulations  of  her  friends,  Lelia 
could  not  speak — she  could  only  lean  her  head  on 
Elmira's  shoulder  and  weep. 

"Don't  cry,  Lelia,"  whispered  Elmira;  "when  you 
and  Charles  live  in  your  log  cabin  together,  in  the 
wild  woods,  you'd  forget  all  about  me." 

"Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  Mrs.  Joseph 
Banks,  on  her  new  name,"  said  Aunt  Phillis,  advanc- 
ing and  saluting  the  bride,  with  inimitable  grace. 

"Mrs.  Joseph  Banks  1"  repeated  Mr.  Banks.  "Very 
good,  young  Mrs.  Banks  I  Very  good!  By  and  by, 
there  will  be  old  Mrs.  Banks — will  there  not,  hey?" 
pinching  Aunt  Phillis'  arm,  who  thought  proper  to 
resent  the  familiarity,  by  drawing  away  her  arm  and 
tossing  up  her  head  with  unexpected  disdain.  The 
next  moment,  fearing  she  might  offend  him  by  her 
too  manifest  resentment  of  the  odious  cognomen,  she 
•looked  back  upon  him,  with  a  coquettish  smile,  and 
said  something  about  his  being  a  privileged  wit. 

The  carriage  rolled  up  to  the  door  with  a  magnili' 
cent  sweep.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  were  seated 
first — then  Mr.  Banks,  who  seemed  to  be  completely 
cured  of  the  gout,  helped  Aunt  Phillis  to  ascend,  who 
sprang  up  the  steps,  as  light  as  a  fawn,  threw  back 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        169 

her  veil  and  kissed  her  hand  to  those  she  was  leaving 
behind.  It  was  a  long  time  before  Mr.  Banks  was 
arranged  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and  it  was  not  till 
Aunt  Phillis  had  squeezed  herself  into  the  smallest 
possible  compass,  he  declared  himself  comfortably 
seated. 

"Fine  horses  these,  brother,"  said  he,  putting  his 
head  out  of  the  window;  "sweep  like  the  wind.  Ride 
like  a  king!"  Poor  Lelial  don't  cry — wish  there  was 
room.  Take  you  next  time — bye,  bye." 

The  noble  horses,  which  had  been  pawing  the 
ground,  impatient  of  their  long  restraint,  bounded 
forward,  at  the  first  touch  of  the  whip,  and  the  car- 
riage was  soon  out  of  sight.  But  as  long  as  it  was 
seen,  the  white  handkerchief  of  Aunt  Phillis  waved 
from  the  window,  like  an  oriflamme  of  victory.  The 
stage,  which  brought  Mr.  Clements  and  his  son,  was 
soon  at  the  door. 

"I  do  not  think  I  can  part  with  you,  after  all,"  said 
Mr.  Manners,  retaining  Lelia  in  a  parting  embrace — 
"I  shall  be  too  lonely." 

"Then  come  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Clements,  "and  let 
me  reciprocate,  as  far  as  I  arn  able,  the  hospitality  I 
have  received  under  your  roof." 

"That  cuts  rather  close,"  thought  Mr. Manners. 

"Come  with  us,"  said  Charles.  "Then  Lelia  will 
not  carry  a  divided  heart." 

Lelia  echoed  these  invitations  most  earnestly,  and, 
to  his  own  astonishment,  he  found  himself  in  a  few 
minutes  seated  in  the  stage-coach,  at  his  daughter's 


170  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OK,   THE 

side,  about  to  make  an  extempore  visit  to  his  poor 
relation. 

As  Aunt  Phillis  is  in  reality  the  heroine  of  this 
tale,  we  feel  it  a  proper  tribute  of  respect  to  follow 
her  course,  in  preference  to  the  unambitious  Lelia.  It 
is  not  our  intention  to  follow  the  minutiae  of  a  journey 
which  required  many  days  to  accomplish,  for  we  are 
as  anxious  as  she  was  to  reach  the  home  which  had  so 
long  been  looming  on  the  restless  sea  of  her  maiden 
fancy.  The  last  day,  their  road  lay  through  a  rough, 
hilly  country,  which  gave  many  a  jolt  to  her  weary 
sides,  and  aching  limbs.  They  rode  through  leafless 
forests,  which  seemed  stretching  into  "a  boundless 
contiguity  of  space,"  and .  through  which  the  wintry 
winds  whistled,  making  most  melancholy  music. 
Long  and  anxiously  did  the  bride  real,  and  the  bride 
apparent,  gaze  from  the  carriage  windows,  straining 
their  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  spires  of 
Banksville,  where  they  were  to  enjoy  the  realization 
of  their  golden  dreams.  It  was  a  grey,  misty,  dreary 
looking  day,  and  towards  evening  the  mist  condensed 
into  clouds,  and  the  clouds  descended  in  a  drizzling 
rain,  which  completely  obscured  the  country,  and 
made  the  travellers  fold  their  cloaks  more  closely 
round  them,  and  draw  towards  each  other  with  more 
affectionate  familiarity. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  tired !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Phillis,  lean- 
ing her  head  against  Mr.  Banks'  ample  shoulder; 
"shall  we  never  reach  home?  You  told  me  three 
hours  ago  it  was  only  ten  miles  to  Banksville." 

"Don't  be  impatient,"  replied  he,  "soon  be  there. 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        171 

Chrrming  place;  get  a  fine  supper;  rest  like 
princes." 

It  was  a  late,  dark  hour,  when  the  travellers  reached 
the  termination  of  their  journey.  Aunt  Phillis  and 
Elmira  had  both  fallen  back  into  a  deep  slumber, 
from  which  they  were  scarcely  aroused  by  the  sudden 
cessation  of  the  motion  of  the  carriage,  and  the  voice 
of  Uncle  Banks,  bidding  them  wake  up,  and  cheer  up, 
for  they  had  got  home  at  last.  With  stiffened  limbs, 
and  bewildered  capacities,  the  film  of  sleep  still  lin- 
gering on  their  eye-lids,  they  were  assisted  from  the 
carriage,  and  led  stumbling  along  over  a  rough  path- 
way towards  a  low  dwelling  intrenched  in  a  cluster 
of  forest  trees,  whose  branches  made  coarse  net-work 
over  the  roof. 

" "Where  are  we  going?"  cried  Aunt  Phillis.  "What 
sort  of  a  place  is  this  ?  Oh,  dear  1 — I  can  scarcely  see 
my  hand  before  me." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Uncle  Banks;  "see  soon 
enough.  Hallo,  there" — giving  a  thundering  rap  at 
the  door — "  bring  a  light  here.  Ho — quick  ! — a  l>ght 
for  the  ladies !" 

A  heavy  step  was  heard  lingering  near  the  door, 
which  being  swung  open  wide,  displayed  a  large 
clumsy-formed  girl,  dressed  in  linsey-woolsey  gar- 
ments, with  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  elbows,  holding 
a  candle  in  one  hand,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  the 
other. 

"  Lar  Mr.  Banks,  if  it  isn't  you  !  Bless  my  stars  I 
here  are  ladies,  sure  enough !" 

"  Open  the  parlour  directly.    Hun  and  make  UD  a 


172  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

fire — good  fire — blazing  fire" — cried  Mr.  Banks, 
taking  the  candle  and  leading  the  way  for  his  shiver- 
ing guests. 

"What  are  you  stopping  for,  at  this  ugly  old  place, 
when  we  are  so  near  home?"  asked  Aunt  Phillis, 
mechanically  following  him,  while  cold,  fearful  drops 
began  to  gather  on  her  darkening  brow. 

"  Joseph,  I  thought  you  said  we  were  to  get  home 
to-night,"  said  Elmira,  in  a  trembling,  reproachful 
voice,  sinking  down  into  the  first  chair  she  saw,  half 
dead  with  fatigue  and  indefinite  apprehension. 

"Homel"  repeated  Uncle  Banks,  rubbing  his 
hands  exultingly  together,  "and  what  should  this 
be,  but  home  ?  New  place,  to  be  sure — going  to  be 
a  palace  by-and-by — not  quite  finished  yet.  Wel- 
come to  Banksville,  my  dear — fine  place,  isn't  it, 
hey?" 

"Home!"  screamed  Aunt  Phillis,  lifting  up  both 
hands  almost  as  high  as  the  ceiling — rolling  her  eyes 
round  the  unpapered  and  unpainted  walls,  up  on  the 
unlathed  rafters,  then  into  the  huge  chimney,  where 
the  large  girl  was  piling  pine  knots  higher  than  her 
head,  and  whose  broad  glare  soon  illuminated  the 
whole  apartment — "  Home ! — home ! — did  you  say  ?" 

"Yes,  home!"  shouted  Uncle  Banks,  from  the  very 
top  of  his  lungs.  "Deaf  all  at  once,  hey?  Good 
home  as  ever  was — plenty  of  room — plenty  of  wood — 
plenty  of  things  to  eat.  What  more  do  you  want  ? 
Come,  take  off  your  cloak — set  down  by  the  fire — no 
ceremony  here." 

Aunt  Phillis  looked  steadily  in  his  face,  without 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        173 

winking — her  eyes  dilated  to  their  utmost  dimensions, 
for  more  than  a  minute,  and  he  looked  steadily  at  her, 
smiling  and  winking  all  the  time.  The  girl  in  the 
chimney  stopped  blowing  the  fire,  and  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  grinning  and  coughing,  displaying 
two  full-length  rows  of  unbroken  ivory. 

"Oh  my  stars,"  shrieked  Aunt  Phillis,  clapping 
both  hands  tightly  on  her  head,  and  throwing  herself 
back  in  a  chair, — "Oh!  my  head — it  will  burst — I 
can't  breathe — I  shall  suffocate — I  shall  die.  Here," 
to  the  grinning  girl,  "  unloosen  my  cloak — untie  my 
bonnet — give  me  a  glass  of  water."  The  last  words 
were  uttered  in  a  calmer  voice.  The  idea,  that  not- 
withstanding the  awful  delusions  respecting  the 
splendour  of  Banksville,  under  which  she  had  been 
labouring,  she  could  induce  him  to  build  a  house  to 
her  own  taste,  out  of  his  hoarded  treasures,  came  like  a 
good  angel  and  checked  the  outpouring  of  her  anger. 
"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  she,  in  a  hysterical  giggle, 
"  that  a  gentleman  of  your  fortune  should  be  willing 
to  live  so — so  simply." 

"My  fortune  I"  repeated  Mr.  Banks,  "fortune 
enough.  Own  this  lot  and  farm — plenty  for  me — all 
the  rest  a  false  report.  No  matter — thought  I'd  try 
my  friends — make  a  frolic  of  it.  No  harm  done — no 
sham  here,"  striking  his  hand  on  his  expansive  chest. 

"  But  your  carriage  ?"  gasped  Aunt  Phillis. 

"  Borrowed." 

"  Your  fine  clothes? 

"All  borrowed — hey." 

Aunt  Phillis  started  up  on  her  feet,  quivering  with 


174  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

passion.  "  You  wretch — you  monster,"  she  exclaimed 
— "you  deceiver — you  jack-daw  in  peacock's  plumes! 
I'll  prosecute  you  for  an  impostor.  I'll  have  you  put 
in  a  penitentiary — set  in  the  pillory — transported  to 
Botany  Bay.  To  entrap  in  this  vile  way  my  unsus- 
pecting innocence.  To  lure  me  on  to  the  brink  of 
matrimony — to  make  me  the  laughing  stock  of  the 
whole  world."  i  i.  * 

Uncle  Banks  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
began  one  of  his  silent  laughs. 

"  To  think  of  my  waiting  upon  you  as  if  you  were 
the  grand  Sultan  himself,"  continued  she,  after  taking 
a  fresh  inspiration.  "  Of  my  tending  your  old  gouty 
feet — yea,  holding  them  in  my  very  lap." 

"  Hey  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat's  in  the  fiddle,"  cried 
he,  getting  up  and  frisking  a  little,  to  show  the  sound- 
ness of  his  limbs.  "Good  feet  as  any  body's  feet. 
No  more  gout  than  you  have.  Eeady  for  a  reel  this 
minute." 

"  Take  us  home  directly,  unfeeling  wretch,"  cried 
the  unhappy  spinster.  "I'll  never  sleep  in  this  miser- 
able hovel — I'll  perish  in  the  woods  first." 

Uncle  Banks,  who  had  enjoyed  sufficiently  the  rage 
and  mortification  of  Aunt  Phillis,  seemed  to  feel  real 
compassion  for  the  distress  of  the  weeping  Elmira. 
"Poor  girl,"  said  he,  kindly  patting  her  on  the 
shoulder,  "  don't  take  on  so — Joe  loves  you — he's 
young  and  strong — be  a  rich  man  yet.  Every  tree  of 
the  West  has  a  treasure  of  gold  in  its  trunk.  I'm 
getting  old — tired  of  the  seas — lost  my  money — wanted 
at  home — wanted  rest — folks  heard  I'd  got  a  great 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         175 

fortune — it  wasn't  my  fault — didn't  mean  to  make  you 
unhappy — thought  you  loved  Joe — good  boy — make 
you  a  good  husband." 

Elmira,  who,  weary  and  half  stunned,  seemed  in  a 
passive  state,  did  not  answer,  but  when  Joe,  en- 
couraged by  his  father,  ventured  to  sit  down  by  her 
and  take  her  hand  in  his,  and  she  did  not  snatch  it 
away,  Uncle  Banks  thought  it  a  propitious  omen,  and 
drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  he  did 
not  speak  for  a  few  moments. 

Aunt  Phillis,  completely  exhausted,  leaned  against 
the  wall.  Her  bonnet,  partly  untied,  rested  on  the 
back  of  her  head ;  her  turban,  disarranged  by  the 
jolting  of  the  carriage  and  her  own  wrathful  gestures, 
was  poked  on  one  side,  revealing  one  or  two  stiff 
grey  locks,  while  heslpng  dark  ringlets,  uncurled  by 
the  rain,  clung  to  her  ckeeks  and  chin  with  mourn- 
ful adhesiveness.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  were 
drawn  down  into  acute  angles ;  the  corners  of  her  eye- 
brows lifted  up  in  corresponding  angles  in  an  op- 
posite direction;  her  nose  looked  sharpened  into  a 
severer  point.  Shakspeare  knew  nothing  of  melan- 
choly madness.  He  had  never  seen  Aunt  Phillis 
Manners. 

Nothwithstanding  the  rough  appearance  of  this 
lodge,  in  the  wilderness  of  the  boundless  west,  where 
the  storm-wrecked  and  eccentric  mariner  had  found  a 
sheltered  haven  of  rest,  it  was  comfortable  and  looked 
even  cheerful,  illumined  as  it  now  was  by  the  blazing 
pine  knots,  which  crackled  and  corruscated  in  the 
vast  chimney,  and  filled  every  nook  and  crevice  with 


176  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

the  brightness  of  noon-day.  A  good  substantial  sup- 
per was  soon  spread  before  them  by  the  "maid  of  all- 
work,"  but  no  one  but  Uncle  Banks  tasted  a  morsel. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  entirely  the  fastidiousness  of 
his  appetite,  and  eat  of  every  dish  with  the  keenest 
relish. 

Aunt  Phillis  did  not  prowl  into  the  woods,  as  she 
had  threatened,  but  threw  herself  down  on  her  hum- 
ble bed  in  a  state  resembling  despair.  The  cup  of 
her  wrath  had  foamed  over,  and  she  was  now  drink- 
ing in  silence  the  bitter  dregs;  the  veriest  lees  of  the 
wine  of  life.  She  felt,  as  we  may  suppose,  as  the 
aeronaut  feels,  who,  after  rising  majestically  into  the 
blue  convexity  of  Heaven,  leaving  far  below  the 
grossness  and  opacity  of  earth,  breathing  the  elasticity 
of  a  rarer,  purer  atmosphere,  almost  hearing  the  music 
of  the  empyrean,  and  catching  glimpses  of  the  palace 
of  the  Sun,  when,  suddenly,  the  gas  explodes,  the 
airy  chariot  falls,  and  he  comes  tumbling  headlong 
from  his  glorious  height,  into  some  muddy  pool,  with 
bruised  frame,  broken  bones  and  shaking  brains. 

For  hours  she  lay,  planning  schemes  of  unexampled 
vengeance,  which  for  variety  and  originality,  might 
have  shamed  the  torments  of  the  fabled  Tartarus, 
till  an  appalling  consciousness  of  her  own  impotence, 
and  the  ridiculousness  of  her  wrongs,  checked  the 
ingenuity  of  her  revenge  She  resolved  at  length  to 
get  home,  as  speedily  and  quietly  as  possible,  to  say 
nothing  to  her  brother,  or  any  of  her  friends,  of  her 
disappointment,  and  thus  screen  herself  from  the 
derision  which  she  knew  would  be  her  portion. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         177 

Elmira's  feelings  were  not  deep,  nor  her  passions 
strong.  Her  character  had  been  moulded  by  circum- 
stances, and  it  was  easily  remoulded.  After  the  first 
ebullition  of  sorrow  and  chagrin,  convinced  that  her 
destiny  was  fixed,  she  submitted  with  a  comparative 
good  grace— determining,  in  her  own  mind,  that  her 
father  should  build  her  a  fine  house,  and  that  the 
world  should  never  know  how  deceived  she  had  been. 
Besides,  Joe  was  so  really  affectionate  a£d  kind,  she 
could  not  continue  sullen  and  resentful — and  ill-hu- 
mour looked  so  unlovely  and  forbidding  in  her  aunt, 
that  she  struggled  against  its  mastery. 

"Carry  you  home  again,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  "in 
the  same  carriage  that  brought  you — don't  want  to 
keep  folks  against  their  will — ought  to  be  glad  of 
such  a  fine  ride.  Daughter  may  go  too,  till  we  get 
her  a  house  built.  Be  happy  as  a  queen  yet — mustn't 
be  angry  at  uncle — all  for  the  best — married  Joe — 
not  his  purse.  Fine  boy — hey  ?" 

With  what  different  emotions  did  Aunt  Phillis  find 
herself  seated  in  the  same  carriage  with  the  same 
party,  the  day  but  one  after  her  arrival.  She  wouldn't 
condescend  to  sit  on  the  same  seat  with  Mr.  Banks, 
but  making  Elmira  occupy  that  post  of  honour,  to 
the  great  displeasure  of  Cousin  Joe,  placed  herself 
opposite,  and  if  the  lightning  of  her  eyes  could  have 
withered,  Mr.  Banks  would  have  been  nothing  but  a 
shrivelled  scroll.  He  seemed  in  imperturbable  good 
humour,  singing  and  laughing  so  merrily,  that  Elmira 
caught  the  infection,  and  smiled  and  even  laughed. 
The  third  day  of  their  journey,  the  aspect  of  the 
11 


178  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGK;    OR,    THE 

country  changed.  It  was  no  longer  the  same  road 
they  had  travelled  before — Aunt  Phillis  noticed  the 
change,  and  peevishly  asked  to  what  new  cities  they 
were  going. 

"Going  to  stop  to-night  at  a  friend's,"  answered 
Uncle  Banks.  "Good  friend — loaned  me  this  carriage 
— l«mt  me  my  velvet  suit  and  jewels — capital  fellow 
— rich  as  a  Jew — lives  like  a  prince — catch  him  per- 
haps—hey?" 

Aunt  Phillis  disdained  to  answer,  supposing  he  was 
going  to  take  her  to  another  log-cabin  and  some  com- 
panion of  congenial  coarseness.  Night  came  on,  a 
clear,  cold,  moonlight  night,  when  the  atmosphere 
itself  looked  all  white  and  silvery,  and  the  pebbly 
ground  sparkled  like  diamonds.  The  horses  went 
faster  and  faster,  and  struck  fire  from  their  resound- 
ing hoofs.  Uncle  Banks'  spirits  rose  at  every  turning 
of  the  wheels.  He  sang  every  verse  of  "Cease  rude 
Boreas,"  "Black-eyed  Susan,"  and  "The  Jolly  Tar," 
keeping  time  with  his  feet  and  hands,  while  Aunt 
Phillis  kept  dodging  her  head  this  way  and  that,  and 
drawing  her  feet  under  her  clothes  to  avoid  coming  in 
contact  with  him.  At  length  the  carriage  rolled  over 
a  smoother  road — regular  rows  of  lofty  trees,  grand 
and  lordly  even  in  the  wintry  nakedness,  skirted  the 
way-side — the  illuminated  windows  of  a  large  white 
dwelling,  with  white  columns  supporting  a  piazza, 
that  surrounded  the  whole  building,  over  which  pe- 
rennial vines  were  clustering,  became  defined  on  the 
luminous  back-ground  of  the  starry  heaven. 

"This  is  a  fine  house,  to  be  sure,"  said  Aunt  Phillis, 


iOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        179 

in  a  more  gracious  tone,  as  the  carriage  stopped  at  tho 
door.  "  It  is  pleasant  to  see  a  Christian-looking  habi- 
tation once  more." 

"No  need  of  knocking,"  said  Uncle  Banks,  leading 
the  way  up  the  flight  of  marble  steps,  to  the  entrance 
— "old  acquaintance — no  ceremony." 

He  entered  the  hall,  then  throwing  back  the  folding 
doors,  displayed  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  Aunt  Phillis, 
a  scene  which  she  thought  some  wizard  wand  had 
conjured.  Seated  at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  apart- 
ment, beneath  the  soft  lustre  of  a  moonlight  lamp,  sat 
her  brother,  reading  a  newspaper,  as  much  at  ease,  as 
if  he  had  been  domesticated  there  all  his  life,  and  di- 
rectly opposite  was  Mr.  Clements,  so  intently  engaged 
with  a  book  that  he  did  not  notice  the  opening  of  the 
door.  And  on  a  sofa,  a  little  in  the  back- ground  of 
the  picture,  Charles  and  Lelia  were  sitting  side  by 
side,  engaged  in  such  earnest  and  interesting  conver- 
sation, it  is  doubtful  whether  the  entrance  of  Xerxes 
and  his  army  would  have  diverted  their  attention,  from 
each  other. 

"Well  done,  kinsfolk!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Banks, 
giving  his  brother  a  rousing  slap  on  the  shoulder. 
"Can't  you  see  a  body,  hey?  Brought  Cousin  Phillis 
to  make  you  a  visit.  Wasn't  pleased  with  Banksville, 
may  be  she'll  like  Clementsville  better.  Ha— little 
sweetheart  playing  puss  in  the  corner  there.  Como 
and  kiss  your  uncle." 

'•  \Velcome,  Cousin  Phillis,"  said  Mr.  Clements, 
shaking  her  cordially  by  the  hand,  "many  thanks  for 
Mii  unexpected  honour.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 


180  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

repay  you,  according  to  my  poor  ability,  some  of  the 
obligations  I  owe  you." 

"  So  you've  all  been  making  a  fool  of  me,"  cried  she, 
unable  to  suppress  the  overflowing  of  her  passions. 
"Pretending  to  be  poor,  when  you're  rich,  and  rich 
when  you're  poor,  just  to  make  a  gull  of  me — and 
that  little  hypocrite  knew  it  all  the  time,"  shaking  her 
forefinger  at  Lelia,  with  a  familiar  gesture,  "she 
knew  it  all.  She  acted  her  part  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  you.  You've  every  one  been  in  a  conspiracy 
against  me.  Yes — every  one — not  excepting  my  own 
brother." 

Here  she  threw  herself  back  on  the  sofa  and  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  rocked  to  and  fro, 
in  hysterical  agony. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  recrimination  now,  sister,"  said 
Mr.  Manners.  "  We  have  both  been  taught  a  good 
lesson,  by  which  I  hope  I  shall  profit,  as  long  as  I 
live.  But  you  must  not  accuse  Lelia.  She  was  the 
only  one  of  us,  who  loved  her  uncle  and  cousin  for 
themselves  alone ;  and  verily,  she  hath  found  her  re- 
ward," added  he,  giving  Charles  a  look,  that  might 
have  made  any  young  man  proud. 

"Come,  Cousin  Phillis,"  said  Mr.  Clements,  "let 
us  forget  and  forgive.  We  have  all  been  playing  a 
little  farce,  which  has  made  us  somewhat  better  ac- 
quainted with  human  nature,  and  with  the  mysteries 
of  our  own  hearts.  Having  received  a  splendid  ac- 
cession to  my  fortunes,  while  still  a  resident  in  a 
foreign  land,  which  rumour,  by  mistake,  gave  to  my 
sailor  brother  here,  I  yielded  to  his  whim,  and  allowed 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        181 

myself  to  be  thought  poor  and  himself  rich,  as  had 
been  previously  reported  to  you.  I  had  some  mis- 
givings as  to  the  propriety  of  the  deception;  but 
since  I  have  discovered  such  a  treasury  of  disinter- 
ested affection,  in  this  beloved  child,"  drawing  Lelia 
to  his  bosom  as  he  spoke — "  this  child,  who  is  as  much 
lifted  above  hypocrisy  as  the  heavens  are  above  the 
earth,  and  since  I  have  secured  the  happiness  of  my 
son,  by  a  promised  union  with  so  much  loveliness 
and  virtue,  I  cannot  regret  the  masquerade  we  wore. 
Yes,  Lelia — I  would  not  exchange  this  coat,  this  dress 
given  to  your  poor  uncle,  for  the  ermine  of  royalty. 
Its  history  shall  be  recorded  in  the  family  archive  and 
handed  down  even  to  your  children's  children.  El- 
mira,  your  husband  is  not  a  poor  man,  for  he  shall 
share  of  my  inheritance,  and  yet  make  himself  a  name 
and  a  fame  in  the  growing  West." 

"  Come,  Cousin  Phillis,"  cried  Uncle  Banks.  "Kub 
out  old  scores.  Kiss  and  be  friends.  Don't  spoil 
your  eyes.  Catch  a  rich  sweetheart  yet — maybe. 
Hain't  got  the  chink — can't  help  it — don't  want 
it — clear  head — sound  limbs,  stout  heart — good  con- 
science— wealth  enough  for  me.  Isn't  that  enough — 
hey?" 


182  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 


Cap;  or,  mj  ©ranko%r's 
Knmfe. 

IT  was  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  had  gone  down 
\vhen  the  stage  stopped  at  Edward  Stanley's  lodgings, 
who  was  about  to  visit  his  village  home.  The  lamps 
threw  a  strong  glare  on  the  pavements,  but  the  in- 
terior of  the  vehicle  was  in  such  deep  shade,  he  could 
but  imperfectly  distinguish  his  fellow  travellers. 

He  observed,  however,  that  several  young  gentlemen 
occupied  the  front  and  middle  seats,  while  an  old 
woman,  muffled  in  a  cloak,  sat  alone  on  the  back  one. 
She  turned  her  head  sharply  round  as  he  entered,  and 
the  light  glimmering  under  her  large  hood  was 
brightly  reflected  from  a  pair  of  spectacles  of  such 
spacious  dimensions,  they  seemed  to  cover  her  whole 
face,  or  at  least  all  the  face  that  was  visible  through 
the  wide-plaited  border  of  a  mob  cap.  Edward  took 
the  only  vacant  seat  in  the  stage,  at  her  side,  with  a 
very  respectful  bow,  which  was  received  with  some- 
thing between  a  hem  and  a  cough,  a  sound  diverting 
in  itself,  and  rendered  still  more  so,  by  its  echo  from 
the  opposite  seat ;  for  the  young  gentlemen  seemed 
determined  to  derive  all  the  amusement  possible  from 
their  antiquated  companion.  Edward  had  a  convivial 
spirit,  but  he  had  too  deep  a  reverence  for  age  ever  to 
make  it  a  subject  for  mirth.  It  was  in  itself  a  suffi- 
cient guarantee  for  veneration,  even  when  unaccompa- 
nied by  those  traits  which  impart  a  beauty  to  the 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS   OF  AMEKTCAX   LIFE.        183 

faded  brow,  and  to  the  hoary  head  a  crown  of  glory. 
The  recollection  of  his  own  grandmother,  too,  who 
had  died  since  his  absence  from  home — one  of  those 
fine,  dignified  relics  of  the  majestic  simplicity  of  olden 
time,  which  reminds  one  so  forcibly  of  the  degeneracy 
of  modern  days — gave  a  tenderness  to  his  manners,  in 
addressing  an  aged  person,  which  was  peculiarly  en- 
gaging in  the  present  instance,  from  the  effect  of  con- 
trast. 

"Take  care,  grandmother,"  said  the  young  men 
opposite,  as  the  stage  jolted  over  a  huge  stone,  "  take 
care  of  your  spectacles.  We  shall  upset,  now,  depend 
upon  it." 

"  No  thanks  to  you  if  we  don't,"  cried  she,  mutter- 
ing, in  the  indistinct  accents  of  age.  Then  turning 
towards  Edward,  she  continued,  "  It  is  really  refresh- 
ing to  see  a  well-behaved,  decent  young  gentleman, 
after  enduring  the  impertinence  of  the  dandies  and 
jacknapes.  Never  mind,  you  may  laugh  now  as  loud 
as  you  please;  but  if  you  live,  you  will  be  old  your- 
self one  of  these  days." 

She  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  which  seemed 
unfathomable  in  depth,  and  drawing  out  a  snuff-box, 
after  rapping  it  several  times,  she  presented  it  to 
Edward,  who  was  obliged  from  politeness  to  take  a 
pinch,  and  all  the  passengers  petitioning  for  a  similar 
favour,  a  sneezing  concert  commenced,  in  which  the 
old  lady  herself  acted  the  most  sonorous  part.  After 
the  mirth  occasioned  by  this  chorus  had  subsided,  she 
dropped  her  box  into  her  pocket,  and  it  sunk  like  a 
pebble  descending  into  a  vault.  Edward  began  to 


184  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

enjoy  his  journey  exceedingly ;  he  never  felt  disposed 
to  sleep  in  a  stage  coach,  and  the  old  lady  declared 
herself  of  the  same  temperament,  though  he  gallantly 
offered  his  shoulder  as  a  pillow,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  the  others,  who  were,  ere  long,  nodding  their 
heads  to  and  fro,  occasionally  knocking  their  heads 
against  each  other,  or  reclining  backwards  in  more 
unsocial  attitudes.  Edward  and  his  muffled  com- 
panion fell  into  the  most  familiar  and  agreeable  con- 
versation. She  seemed  very  shrewd  and  original  in 
her  remarks,  and  exercised  the  privilege  of  age  in  in- 
quiring his  name,  the  place  of  his  residence,  &c. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "  I  knew  you  had  a  mother  and 
sisters — or  a  sister  whom  you  loved,  from  your  kind- 
ness to  me,  an  old  woman,  and  a  stranger.  Heaven 
be  blessed  for  the  influence  of  gentle  ones  on  the  heart 

of  man.  And  you  are  going  to  the  village  of  . 

Do  you  know  any  thing  of  the  Widow  Clifton, 
daughter  of  Squire  Lee,  who  lives  somewhere  in  those 
parts?" 

"  Not  personally — but  report  says  she  is  such  a  gay 
dashing  character.  I  suppose  she  will  find  herself 
very  much  out  of  place  in  a  country  town.  I  hear, 
through  my  sister,  that  she  is  to  take  possession  of 
her  late  father's  dwelling,  which  has  been  fitted  up 
for  her  accommodation  in  quite  a  princely  style. 
You  speak  as  if  you  knew  her,  madam." 

"  Yes,  for  I  was  a  great  friend  to  her  grandmother ; 
a  fine  old  lady  as  ever  lived,  a  thousand  time  hand- 
somer than  Gertrude — but  very  likely  you  may  not 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        186 

agree  with  me.    Young  eyes  see  differently  from  old 
ones." 

"  Is  she  young?"  asked  Edward. 

"Yes,  she  is  scarcely  twenty,  for  she  married,  poor 
thing,  at  a  very  early  age,  and  was  left  a  widow  soon 
after.  She  has  need  of  more  discretion  than  she  has 
now,  or  ever  will  have." 

"I  should  like  to  see  this  gay  young  widow,"  said 
Edward,  musingly,  the  vision  of  a  pair  of  heavenly 
blue  eyes  that  he  had  seen  stealing  softly  before  him, 
"  but  it  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  become  acquainted, 
for  my  mother  and  sister  live  very  retired,  and  when 
I  am  at  home  I  devote  myself  to  them." 

It  was  surprising  in  what  confidential  terms  he  was 
addressing  his  new  acquaintance,  and  how  entirely  he 
forgot  to  ask  her  name  and  residence,  though  he  had 
so  freely  imparted  his  own. 

As  the  morning  air  came  chill  and  dewy  over  the 
hill,  she  drew  her  cloak  more  closely  around  her, 
pulled  down  her  hood,  and  seemed  drowsy  and  silent. 
Edward  was  not  sorry  to  tie  left  a  while  to  his  own 
reflections.  He  thought  of  the  mild  eyes  of  his 
mother,  at  that  very  moment,  perhaps,  turned  towards 
the  window,  anxiously  watching  his  coming,  of  the 
more  eager  anticipations  of  his  only  sister,  and  more 
than  all,  he  thought  upon  "  the  witching  smile  that 
caught  his  youthful  fancy." 

1*  He  was  roused  from  his  reveries  by  the  suddon 
stopping  of  the  stage,  and  he  found  he  was  to  be 
separated  from  his  ancient  friend.  Jumping  out  with 
as  much  alacrity  as  if  he  were  in  attendance  on  youth 


186  COURTSHIP   AND    MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

and  beauty,  he  assisted  her  as  she  descended  with  slow 
and  difficult  steps ;  and  opening  the  gate  for  her  to 
pass,  gave  her  a  cordial  and  respectful  farewell. 

"  I  shall  riot  soon  forget  you,  young  gentleman," 
said  she,  holding  out  her  tremulous  hand,  "and  if  the 
time  ever  comes  when  I  can  serve  you,  you  will  find 
the  aged  can  remember  the  kindness  of  youth." 

Resuming  his  seat,  his  thoughts  winged  their  way 
towards  the  home  he  was  now  rapidly  approaching. 
In  two  or  three  hours,  he  began  to  distinguish  the 
irees  familiar  to  his  boyhood.  A  little  farther,  a 
majestic  elm  stretched  its  lordly  branches  over  the 
street,  they  passed,  on  either  side,  the  landmark  of  his 
school-day  pastimes.  Then  a  white  house  glimmered 
through  the  green  foliage  that  overshadowed  it, — and 
a  moment  more,  Edward  was  in  the  arms  of  his 
mother,  with  his  sister  clinging  round  his  neck.  An 
only  son  and  brother,  returned  after  twelve  months' 
absence,  to  beings  whose  best  affections  were  garnered 
in  him,  might  reasonably  call  forth  warm  and  joyous 
emotions.  A  shade,  however,  passed  over  their 
brows,  as  the  saddened  glance  of  Edward  rested  on 
the  easy  chair,  where  he  had  last  beheld  that  vener- 
able form  with  placid  brows,  crowned  with  living 
silver,  now  laid  low  in  the  dust — and  they  all  remem- 
bered the  dead. 

A  year's  residence  in  the  heart  of  a  city,  would 
naturally  produce  some  change  in  a  young  man,  as 
yet  only  in  the  morning  of  manhood,  and  as  Clara's 
admiring  eyes  ran  over  the  face  and  figure  of  her  bro- 
ther, she  blushed  at  her  own  rusticity.  There  was  an 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.        187 

indescribable  something  in  his  air  and  manner,  that 
told  he  had  been  in  a  region  different  from  her  own, 
and  a  shadow  of  awe  began  to  steal  over  the  deep  love 
she  felt  for  him.  Mrs.  Stanley,  whose  chastened  and 
pious  thoughts  were  dwelling  on  the  inner  man,  re- 
joiced that  his  heart  remained  unchilled  during  his 
intercourse  with  the  world,  for  the  fountain  of  filial 
tenderness  was  still  full  and  gushing  over. 

Edward  Stanley  was  poor — that  is,  he  had  only  his 
own  inborn  energies  to  carry  him  through  the  world. 
He  had  just  completed  his  studies  as  a  lawyer,  having 
finished  his  last  year  with  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
members  of  the  bar,  a  friend  of  his  late  father,  who, 
though  he  died  poor  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  was 
rich  in  the  good  opinions  of  his  fellow-men.  Edward 
was  resolved  it  should  prove  a  year  of  probation,  and 
adhered  to  his  determination  not  to  suffer  even  the 
holiest  interest  of  nature  to  turn  him  aside  from  his 
steadfast  course.  The  trial  was  past — he  was  admitted 
to  the  bar — and  now  felt  privileged  to  rest  and  re- 
fresh himself  for  a  while  at  the  well-springs  of  the 
heart. 

That  evening,  as  he  looked  abroad  and  saw  the 
moon  sending  down  such  rills  of  light  through  the  deep 
shades  of  the  landscape,  he  thought  how  beautiful 
Fanny  Morton  had  looked  when  she  stood,  a  year  ago, 
in  the  midst  of  such  silver  waves,  and  he  longed  to 
know  how  she  would  look  then,  standing  in  the  self- 
same moonbeams.  The  wish  was  easily  accomplished, 
for  her  father's  house  was  but  a  short  distance  from 
his  own,  and  he  soon  found  himself  near  the  threshold. 


188  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

The  house  was  situated  a  little  retreating  from  th* 
street,  and  the  path  that  led  to  it  was  soft  and  grassy, 
lying  too  in  a  thick  shadow,  so  his  approach  was  not 
perceived.  There  she  stood,  almost  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, leaning  against  the  door,  looking  upwards  with 
eyes  so  deeply,  beautifully  blue,  they  seemed  to  have 
borrowed  the  colour  from  the  night  heaven  to  which 
their  gaze  was  directed.  Her  fair,  flaxen  hair  glittered 
in  the  moonlight  with  a  golden  lustre,  brightly  con- 
trasting with  the  pure  whiteness  of  a  brow,  where  the 
serenity  of  youth  and  innocence  was  now  softly  re- 
posing. 

" Fanny!"  said  Edward,  emerging  from  the  shadow ; 
and  she  sprang  forward  at  the  well-known  voice,  with 
a  bounding  step,  and  a  joyous  smile. 
"  Edward,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come." 
Her  manner  was  so  frank  and  affectionate,  it  re- 
lieved him  from  the  agitation  he  felt  in  addressing  her. 
Perhaps  he  felt  a  disappointment  in  meetjng  her  child- 
ish expression  of  pleasure,  instead  of  the  deep  silence 
of  joy,  for  it  is  certain  the  romance  of  his  feelings  con- 
siderably subsided,  and  he  uttered  some  commonplace 
sayings,  instead  of  the  high-wrought  sentiments  in 
which  he  had  been  indulging.  He  had  never  told 
Fanny  in  so  many  words  that  he  loved  her,  but  they 
had  lived  in  almost  daily  interchange  of  offices 
prompted  by  aifection.  In  absence  he  had  blended 
her  image  with  every  memory  of  the  past  and  every 
hope  of  the  future,  and  now  in  her  presence,  he  ac- 
knowledged that  she  was  fairer  and  lovelier  than  even 
the  visions  his  fancy  had  drawn.  The  people  of  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        189 

village  seeing  Fanny  again  the  constant  companion  of 
Edward  and  Clara  Stanley,  as  in  former  times,  prophe 
siel  a  speedy  union,  though  they  dwelt  on  the  ex- 
cessive imprudence  of  the  match,  as  they  were  both 
too  poor  to  think  of  marrying,  and  many  declared 
Fanny  to  be  no  better  than  a  piece  of  painted  wax- 
work, fit  only  to  be  looked  at  and  admired. 

They  were  returning  one  evening,  about  sunset, 
from  a  walk  in  the  woodland.  Fanny  was  literally 
covered  with  garlands,  which  Edward  and  Clara  had 
woven,  and  with  her  hat  swinging  in  her  hand,  and 
her  fair  locks  unbound,  she  formed  the  most  pic- 
turesque feature  of  a  landscape,  then  rich  in  all  the 
glories  of  summer.  They  turned  aside  from  the 
path,  for  the  trampling  of  horses'  feet  were  behind 
them. 

"Look,  brother,  look!"  exclaimed  Clara,  as  a  lady, 
in  company  with  two  gentlemen,  rode  gaily  by.  She 
was  dressed  in  green.  Her  long  riding-dress  swept 
far  below  her  feet,  and  waving  feathers  of  the  same 
colour  mingled  with  the  folds  of  a  veil  which  floated 
lightly  on  the  breeze.  She  turned  ancL^pked  earn- 
estly at  Fanny,  who,  blushing  at  her  fantastical  appear- 
ance, drew  behind  Clara,  when  the  veil  of  the  stranger 
suddenly  loosened,  and,  fluttering,  fell  at  Edward's 
feet.  Never  was  a  fairer  opening  for  gallantry.  The 
lady  checked  her  spirited  horse,  and,  bending  grace- 
fully forward,  received  the  veil  from  the  hands  of  Ed- 
ward, with  a  smile  and  a  bow  that  would  have  repaid 
any  man  for  a  greater  exertion.  Her  complexion  was 
dark,  but  richly  coloured  with  the  warm  hues  of  ex- 


190  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ercise  and  health ;  and  when  she  smiled,  her  eyes  were 
so  brilliantly  black,  and  her  teeth  so  glitteringly  white, 
that  Clara  could  talk  of  nothing  else  for  an  hour  after 
she  reached  home — and  Edward  caught  himself  won- 
dering several  times,  who  the  lady  of  the  green  plumes 
could  be. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  suddenly,  when  he  saw,  at  night, 
lights  gleaming  from  the  windows  of  the  great  white 
house  on  the  hill — "  It  must  be  Mrs.  Clifton,  the  dash- 
ing widow." 

And  Mrs.  Clifton  it  proved  to  be,  whose  arrival 
caused  no  slight  sensation  in  this  quiet  village — Ed- 
ward and  Fanny  were  quite  forgotten  in  the  superior 
claims  of  one,  who,  though  among  them,  was  not  of 
them.  One  represented  her  as  proud  as  Lucifer, 
sweeping  through  the  streets,  with  her  officer-like  cap 
and  feathers, — another,  as  a  lioness,  leaping  her  horse 
over  hedges  and  walls.  Some  represented  her  as 
dark  as  an  Ethiopian,  terrible  and  grand — and  others, 
as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  blithe  as  a  wood-nymph. 
Meanwhile  tljp  unconscious  object  of  these  contra- 
dictory a^Miostly  invidious  remarks,  continued  her 
rides  over^Bl  and  dale  with  unwearied  activity,  nnd 
sometimes  she  appeared  in  a  splendid  carriage,  with  a 
footman,  who  was  said  to  be  dressed  in  livery,  though 
he  wore  a  suit  of  sober  gray. 

What  was  the  astonishment  of  Clara  Stanley,  when 
she  saw  one  morning  this  splendid  carriage  stop  at 
her  own  door,  and  Mrs.  Clifton  herself  descend  from 
it!  Clara's  next  feeling  was  deep  mortification  ;  for 
both  her  mother  and  herself  were  dressed  in  plain 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        191 

calico  mourning  frocks,  and  the  room  was  in  a  state 
of  particular  disorder,  for  she  was  occupied  in  cutting 
and  arranging  work,  and  her  brother  had  covered  the 
table  with  papers  he  was  about  to  examine. 

"Oh,  Edward,"  cried  Clara,  "if  there's  not  Mrs. 
Clifton!  what  shall  we  do?" 

"  Do  ?"  said  he,  laughing  and  starting  up  eagerly — 
"Why  ask  her  to  come  in;"  and  with  an  ease  and 
self-possession  that  almost  provoked  the  mortified 
Clara,  he  met  this  startling  visitor  at  the  threshold. 

She  introduced  herself  with  so  much  grace  and 
politeness,  and  fell  into  conversation  so  rapidly  and 
simply,  apologizing  for  what  she  feared  might  b& 
deemed  an  intrusion,  but  expressing  an  earnest  wish 
to  become  acquainted  with  neighbours  in  whose 
society  she  anticipated  so  much  pleasure,  so  naturally 
and  sincerely,  that  Clara's  burning  cheeks  began  to 
cool,  and  her  confused  senses  to  be  sufficiently  col- 
lected to  appreciate  so  signal  an  honour.  Mrs.  Stanley 
was  too  truly  refined  and  well  bred  to  share  in  her 
daughter's  embarrassment.  She  was  not  ashamed  of 
the  simplicity  of  their  dress,  and  she  dji  ooi  !».>!•; 
upon  the  proofs  of  Clara's  industry  anrWHward's 
literature,  scattered  about  the  room,  as  at  all  disgrace- 
ful. Moreover,  she  was  very  proud  of  her  son,  and 
thought  she  had  never  seen  him  appear  to  such  ail 
advantage  as  at  this  moment,  when  engaged  in  ani- 
mated conversation  with  this  graceful  and  charming 
lady.  Mrs.  Clifton  admired  the  garden,  the  vines  that 
made  such  fairy  lattice-work  around  the  windows,  the 
pictures  that  hung  upon  the  walls,  till  every  thing 


192  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

around  her  became  exalted  in  Clara's  eyes,  with 
charms  unknown  before.  When  she  arose  to  depart, 
she  urged  Mrs.  Stanley  so  warmly  to  visit  her,  and  to 
suffer  her  to  see  much  of  Clara,  -it  was  impossible  not 
to  believe  she  was  soliciting  a  favour.  She  was  so 
lonely,  she  said — the  friends  who  had  accompanied 
her  were  returned,  and  she  had  nothing  but  her  books 
and  harp  for  companions.  Her  harp !  Clara  was  crazy 
to  hear  a  harp.  The  very  idea  carried  her  at  once 
into  the  fairy  land  of  romance,  of  Ossian's  heroines 
and  Milton's  angels. 

"Is  she  not  the  most  charming  woman  you  ever 
saw  in  your  life  ?"  exclaimed  Clara,  the  moment  she 
had  left  them.  "  I  quite  forgot  my  calico  frock  and 
these  linen  shreds,  long  before  she  was  gone.  Did 
you  ever  see  any  one  so  polite  and  condescending?  1 
.wonder  how  she  came  to  select  us  from  all  the  village, 
to  call  upon,"  and  she  smiled  at  the  importance  it 
would  give  them  in  the  eyes  of  their  neighbours. 

"I  am  not  much  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley,  "as 
her  father  $nd  yours  were  on  intimate  terms,  and 
it  is  £MJAtte  she  has  taken  pains  to  ascertain  hie 
friends^WRfe  had  just  married  when  Mr.  Lee  came 
into  the  country,  and  as  she  went  immediately 
abroad,  she  never  visited  the  place  during  her  father's 
life.  She  married  very  young,  and  I  think  I  have 
heard  she  was  not  happy  in  her  union.  She  cer- 
tainly does  not  seem  inconsolable  at  her  husband's 
death." 

"Is  she  not  delightful,  Edward?"  continued  Clara, 
in  a  perfect  fever  of  admiration.  "Did  you  ever 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN*   LIFE.         193 

see  such  eyes  and  teeth?  and  though  she  is  dark, 
her  complexion  is  so  glowing  and  clear,  I  don't 
think  she  would  look  as  handsome  if  she  were  fairer. 
I  wonder  if  she  will  marry  again?" 

"You  wonder  at  so  many  things,"  replied  Edward, 
laughing,  "you  must  live  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
astonishment.  But  I  do  think,  Clara,  that  Mrs.  Clifton 
is  very  delightful,  and  very  charming,  and  graceful, 
and  I  hope  my  dear  little  rustic  sister  will  try  to 
imitate  her  graces." 

Edward  would  never  have  breathed  this  unfor- 
tunate wish  had  he  anticipated  how  faithfully  poor 
Clara  would  have  obeyed  his  injunction. 

The  visit  was  soon  returned,  and  if  Clara  admired 
her  new  friend  before,  she  was  now  completely  fasci- 
nated. She  "saw  the  white  rising  of  her  hands  upon 
the  harp,"  and  heard  the  mellow  tones  of  a  voice 
tuned  to  the  sweetest  modulation  of  art.  The  rich 
furniture,  the  superb  curtains,  the  paintings  in  massy 
gilt  frames,  seemed  to  her  unaccustomed  eye  equal 
to  oriental  splendour,  and  Mrs.  Clifton  some  eastern 
enchantress,  presiding  over  the  scene,^Mji  more 
than  magic  power.  Edward  Stanley  wl^passion- 
ately  fond  of  music.  He  had  never  heard  it  in  such 
perfection.  But  there  was  a  charm  in  Mrs.  Clifton's 
conversation  even  superior  to  her  music.  It  was 
full  of  spirit,  sensibility,  enthusiasm,  and  refinement. 
Then  its  perfect  adaptedness  to  all  around  her! 
Every  one  talked  better  with  her  than  with  any  one 
else,  and  felt,  when  they  quitted  her  society,  that 
they  had  never  been  so  agreeable  before;  confessing, 
12 


l9i  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

at  the  same  time,  that  they  had  never  met  with  any 
one  half  so  pleasing  as  herself.  She  certainly  did 
flatter  a  little;  that  is,  she  told  very  pleasant  truths, 
with  a  most  bewitching  smile,  and  another  thing, 
which,  perhaps,  was  the  great  secret  of  her  attrac- 
tion, she  seemed  completely  to  forget  herself,  in  her 
interest  for  those  around  her. 

It  is  very  certain  Mrs.  Stanley's  family  thought 
more  of  their  new  neighbour  that  night,  than  their 
old  ones.  Even  Edward  forgot  to  dream  of  the 
blue  eyes  of  Fanny  Morton.  His  conscience  re- 
proached him  for  the  oblivion;  and  when  he  saw  the 
unenvying  interest  with  which  she  listened  to  Clara's 
praises  of  the  dashing  widow,  as  she  was  called  by 
the  villagers,  he  admired  the  sweetness  and  sim 
plicity  of  a  character,  pure  as  the  untracked  snow. 
He  admired,  but,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  a  want 
in  this  sweet  character.  lie  had  never  discovered 
before,  that  Fanny  was  deficient  in  sensibility,  that 
the  shadows  of  feeling  seldom  passed  over  her 
celestial  countenance.  He  found,  too,  a  dearth  of 
thoughf  6tA.  variety  in  her  conversation,  of  which  he 
had  never  been  sensible  before.  A  pang  of  self-ac- 
cusation shot  through  his  heart,  as  he  made  these 
discoveries,  and  feeling  as  if  he  were  guilty  of 
injustice,  his  attentions  became  still  more  frequent, 
and  he  tried  to  restrain  his  restless  and  wandering 
thoughts. 

Clara  sat  one  morning  in  a  deep  reverie     "Mother," 
said  she,  at  length,  "do  you  remember  that  full  crim- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        196 

son  damask  petticoat,  grandmother  left  me  as  a  me- 
mento of  old  times?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Stanley,  surprised  at  the  sud- 
denness of  the  question,  "why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  was  thinking  it  would  make  some  beautiful 
window  curtains  for  our  parlour.  The  sun  shines 
in  so  warm  it  is  really  uncomfortable  to  sit  there, 
and  the  reflection  of  red  curtains  is  very  beautifying 
to  the  complexion." 

"Ah!  Clara,"  cried  her  brother,  "you  never  dis- 
covered how  uncomfortable  it  was,  till  you  saw 
Mrs.  Clifton's  fine  curiains.  You  forget  the  blinds, 
and  the  vines,  and'  the  rose-bushes.  Pray  have 
more  reverence  for  dear  grandmother's  ancient 
relics." 

Clara  blushed,  and  was  considerably  disconcerted, 
but  nevertheless  continued  her  dreams  of  improve- 
ment. Her  latent  love  forshow  and  splendour  began  to 
glimmer  forth  and  iljuminate  many  an  airy  castle  she 
amused  herself  in  building.  To  imitate  Mrs.  Clifton 
was  now  the  end  and  aim  of  her  existence.  She 
practised  her  step,  her  air,  her  smile,  before  the  look- 
ing-glass, in  her  own  chamber,  till  from  a  very  simple 
and  unaffected  girl,  she  became  conspicuously  the  re- 
verse. She  strung  every  window  with  ^Eolian  harps, 
and  tried  to  sing  in  unison  when  the  wild  winds  swept 
the  chords — but  they  disdained  the  harmony  of  the 
human  voice,  and  mocked  at  her  efforts.  Edward  felt 
quite  distressed  at  an  effect  so  contrary  to  his  wishes, 
but  he  concealed  his  chagrin  under  a  good-humoured 
ridicule,  which  somewhat  checked  her  progress  in  the 


190 


COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 


graces.  Once,  when  they  were  to  accompany  Mrs 
Clifton  in  an  excursion  on  horseback,  and  the  lady, 
arrayed  in  her  suit  of  forest  green,  was  already  wait- 
ing their  motion,  he  knew  not  whether  he  was  most 
amused  or  grieved,  to  see  Clara  descend  in  a  dress  of 
the  same  colour,  in  which  the  imitation  was  too  ob- 
vious and  too  defective  not  to  border  on  the  ridiculous, 
with  a  green  veil  wreathed  around  the  crown  of  her 
bonnet,  and  suffered  to  stream  back  behind,  in  the 
form  of  a  feather  or  plume.  Though  the  affection  of 
her  brother  would  not  allow  him  to  wound  her  feel- 
ings, by  making  her  fully  aware  of  her  folly,  and  he 
chose  rather  gently  to  lead  her  back  to  true  simplicity 
and  good  sense,  she  did  not  escape  a  severer  lash  from 
those  who  envied  her  the  distinction  of  Mrs.  Clifton's 
acquaintance,  and  who  revenged  themselves  on  her 
damask  curtains,  ^olian  harps,  and  new-born  airs. 
Her  present  ambition  was  to  possess  a  gold  chain,  an 
ornament  she  deemed  indispensable  to  the  perfection 
of  a  lady's  dress.  She  did  not  aspire  to  so  magnifi- 
cent a  one  as  wreathed  the  graceful  neck  of  Mrs. 
Clifton,  but  she  thought  she  would  be  perfectly  happy 
with  one  of  fur  inferior  value  surrounding  her  own. 
She  had  a  long  string  of  large  gold  beads,  a  parting 
gift  from  her  sainted  grandmother,  an  ornament  too 
obsolete  for  wear,  and  which  she  had  often  sighed  to 
convert  into  modern  jewelry.  An  opportunity  oc- 
curred, at  the  very  moment,  of  all  others,  she  most 
desired  it.  Mrs.  Clifton  was  to  give  a  party.  The 
day  before  the  event,  Clara  was  examining  her  simple 
wardrobe,  trying  to  decide  on  the  important  articles 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        197 

of  dress,  and  mourning  over  her  slender  stock  of 
finery,  when  a  pedler  stopped  at  the  door,  with  a 
trunk  filled  with  jewelry  and  trinkets.  He  spread 
them  before  her  admiring  eyes,  and  when  she  hesi- 
tated and  regretted — he  offered  to  take  any  old  orna- 
ments in  exchange,  holding  up,  at  the  same  time,  a 
glittering  chain,  the  very  article  for  which  her  vitiated 
fancy  was  yearning.  The  temptation  was  irresistible, 
and,  unfortunately,  she  was  alone.  She  flew  to  her 
little  trunk  of  treasures,  drew  out  her  grandmother's 
beads,  and  the  pedler's  eyes  brightened  as  he  saw  the 
pure  rich  old  fashioned  gold,  knowing  their  superior 
value  to  his  own  gilded  trifles. 

"Will  you  exchange  that  chain  for  these?"  said 
she,  in  a  faltering  voice;  for  in  spite  of  her  vain 
desire,  the  very  act  seemed  a  sacrilege  to  her  con- 
science. 

"  That  would  not  be  an  even  bargain,"  he  replied ; 
and  it  was  true,  for  the  chain  was  nothing  but  brass, 
thinly  washed  with  gold.  Clara  hung  down  her  head. 
In  proportion  to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  the  bauble, 
her  longing  increased. 

"That  is  a  very  pretty » little  trunk,"  cried  the 
pedler,  "it  would  be  very  convenient  to  hold  my 
jewels.  If  you  will  throw  that  in,  we  will  strike  a 
bargain." 

Now  the  trunk  was  not  Clara's.  It  belonged  to  her 
brother.  It  was  the  last  keepsake  bequeathed  to  him 
by  this  same  grandmother,  whose  legacies  of  love 
Clara  was  converting  to  purposes  of  vanity  and  pride. 
There  was  a  letter  in  it,  directed  to  him,  with  a  clause 


198  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE  |   OR,   THE 

on  the  envelope,  that  he  was  not  to  open  it  till  he  was 
of  age,  unless  he  should  find  himself  in  some  emergency, 
and  especially  in  need  of  counsel.  The  old  lady  was 
supposed  to  possess  considerable  property,  and  it  was 
also  believed  that  Edward  would  be  her  heir.  On 
her  death,  however,  these  expectations  proved  vain, 
and  her  grandson  did  not  honour  her  memory  the 
less  because  he  was  not  enriched  by  her  loss.  He 
took  the  letter  as  a  sacred  bequest,  wondering  much 
at  the  singular  injunction,  and  told  Clara  to  keep  the 
trunk  for  him,  as  it  was  of  no  use  to  him,  and  she 
would  preserve  it  with  more  care.  Clara  knew  it  was 
only  intrusted  to  her  keeping ;  and  she  turned  pale  at 
the  thought  of  betraying  a  brother's  trust;  but  she 
repeated  to  herself  it  was  of  no  possible  use  to  him, 
that  he  would  probably  never  inquire  for  it,  and  it 
could  not  hurt  her  dear  grandmother's  feelings,  who 
was  sleeping  beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley.  It  was 
a  thing,  too,  of  so  little  consequence— and  the  chain 
was  so  beautiful.  She  emptied  the  trunk  of  its  con- 
tents, gave  it  hastily  into  the  pedler's  hands,  with  the 
beads  which  had  remained  on  her  grandmother's  neck 
till  she  died,  and  gathering  up  the  chain,  felt, — in- 
stead of  the  joy  of  triumph — self- upbraiding  and 
shame.  She  would  have  recalled  the  act ;  but  it  was 
too  late — the  pedler  was  gone.  So  poor  was  the 
gratification  of  vanity — but  the  bitter  consequence 
of  a  deviation  from  rectitude  she  was  yet  to  expe- 
rience. 

When  arrayed  for  the  party,  she  put  a  shawl  care- 
fully around  her  neck  before  she  made  her  appear- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        199 

ance,  to  conceal  her  ill-gotten  splendour — but  the 
consciousness  of  having  something  to  conceal  from 
the  affectionate  eyes  that  were  bent  upon  her,  gave  a 
disturbed  and  anxious  expression  to  her  countenance 
that  did  not  escape  the  observation  of  her  brother ; 
and  when  she  saw  Fanny  in  the  unadorned  simplicity 
of  her  own  loveliness,  she  secretly  loathed  the  acqui- 
sition for  which  she  had  sacrificed  her  principles  of 
right. 

"Let  me  see  you,  Clara,  before  you  start,"  said 
Mrs.  Stanley — and  she  added,  smiling,  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  tried  to  look  too  well." 

"Oh,  pray,  mother  take  care,  cried  Clara,  shrinking 
from  the  dreaded  hand  that  touched  her  shawl ;  "  it 
will  tumble  my  dress  to  take  it  off  now.  It  is  only 
my  plain  muslin  frock,"  and  hurrying  away,  with 
blushes  and  trepidation,  she  felt  that  her  punishment 
was  begun. 

Arrived  at  Mrs.  Clifton's — she  became  still  more 
dissatisfied,  when  she  saw  they:  elegant  hostess, 
dressed  in  the  simplest  attire,  consistent  with  fashion 
and  taste,  with  no  ornament  but  a  cluster  of  roses, 
wreathed  amidst  locks  of  gypsy  blackness  and  oriental 
abundance.  Her  piercing  eye  rested  a  moment  on 
the  beautiful  Fanny,  then  flashed  towards  Edward, 
with  a  very  peculiar  expression.  He  understood  their 
meaning,  and  an  undefinable  sensation  of  pain  and 
displeasure  oppressed  him.  Mrs.  Clifton  was  too 
polite  to  confine  her  attentions  to  those  she  most 
wished  to  distinguish,  but  moved  amongst  her  guests, 
endeavouring,  as  far  as  possible,  to  adapt  herself  to 


200  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE ;   OR,   THE 

their  different  capacities  and  tastes.  She  had  invited 
her  father's  friends,  wishing  extremely  to  make  them 
her  own,  and  to  convince  them  that  she  valued  their 
sympathy  and  good  will. 

"You  seem  dispirited  this  evening,  Mr.  Stanley," 
said  she,  as  Edward,  unusually  silent,  stood  leaning 
against  the  harp,  from  which  he  had  more  than  once 
heard  thrilling  music;  "perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  pre- 
occupied. It  may  be  wise  to  abstract  the  mind  in 
the  midst  of  a  throng,  but  I  am  afraid  it  is  rather 
selfish." 

"  I  should  think  the  wisdom  consisted  in  the  subject 
of  the  abstraction,"  replied  Edward,  "and  I  believe  I 
am  as  unwise  as  I  am  selfish." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  she 
looked  at  Fanny,  whose  serene  countenance  was 
beaming  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  "  Beauty, 
whether  the  subject  of  abstraction  or  contemplation, 
fills  the  mind  with  the  most  delightful  ideas,  and 
elevates  it  by  the  conviction  that  the  hand  that  mads 
it  is  divine.  I  do  not  agree  with  the  moralist  who 
would  degrade  it  as  a  vain  and  valueless  possession. 
The  woman  who  possesses  it,  may  exercise  a  bound- 
less influence  over  the  heart  of  man,  and  if  exerted 
aright  how  glorious  may  be  the  result! — Often  and 
often  have  I  sighed  for  the  celestial  gift — yet,  perhaps, 
I  should  be  neither  better  nor  happier." 

"You!"  exclaimed  Edward. 

It  was  but  a  monosyllable,  but  the  most  laboured 
panegyric  could  not  have  been  half  so  expressive. 
The  clear  olive  of  Mrs.  Clifton's  cheek  was  coloured 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        201 

with  a  brighter  hue  as  she  languidly  resumed — "  I 
did  not  solicit  a  compliment,  but  its  brevity  recom- 
mends yours.  I  know  I  am  not  handsome.  I  cannot 
be  if  beauty  depends  upon  lilies  and  roses.  In  the 
gay  and  heartless  world  I  have  learned  to  shine  as 
others  do,  and  have  tried  the  rules  of  art.  My  life 
has  been  passed  much  with  strangers.  You,  Mr. 
Stanley,  surrounded  as  you  are,  by  all  the  sweet 
charities  of  a  home,  living  in  its  warm  and  sunny 
atmosphere,  you  do  not  know  the  coldness  and  the 
loneliness  of  the  brotherless  and  sisterless  heart." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  and  cast 
down  her  eyes  with  a  deep  expression  of  pro- 
found melancholy.  Edward  did  not  attempt  to 
reply — he  could  not  embody  the  new  and  over- 
powering emotions  that  were  filling  his  soul,  and 
he  would  not  utter  the  common-place  language 
of  admiration.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  had  all 
his  life  been  walking  in  darkness,  and  a  dream, 
and  had  all  at  once  awakened  in  a  blaze  of  light. 
Several  now  gathered  around  Mrs.  Clifton,  entreat- 
ing her  to  play;  and  Edward  availed  himself  of 
the  opportunity  of  drawing  back,  where  he  could 
listen,  unseen  by  her,  to  the  melodious  songstress 
of  the  hour.  He  looked  at  Fanny,  who  was  now 
near  the  instrument,  and  compared  the  calm  feeling 
of  happiness  he  had  enjoyed  in  her  society  to  the 
tumultuous  tide  that  was  now  rushing  through  his 
heart. 

"I  have  loved  Fanny  like  a  brother,"  thought  he, 


202  COURTSHIP,  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"ignorant  of  a  deeper  passion.    And  now  I  am  a 
man  and  a  fool ." 

A  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm.  "Brother,  are 
you  not  well?  You  look  pale  to-night."  Clara 
was  looking  anxiously  in  his  face,  and  he  saw- 
that  her  own  was  flushed  with  excitement. 

"Yes,  Clara,  I  am  well — but  what  has  disturbed 
you?  Indeed  I  noticed  before  we  left  home  that 
something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  your  spirits.  Tell 
me  the  cause." 

He  drew  her  hand  affectionately  through  his  arm, 
and  for  the  first  time  noticed  her  new  ornament. 

"It  is  not  the  weight  of  this  new  chain  that 
oppresses  you,"  said  he,  lifting  it  from  her  neck — 
"though  it  does  feel  rather  magnificent.  You  have 
never  showed  me  this  new  gift  of  yours.  Who 
could  have  been  the  donor?" — and  he  thought  of 
Mrs.  Clifton. 

"Do  not  speak  of  it  here,"  whispered  Clara,  with 
so  much  embarrassment,  it  confirmed  Edward's  sus- 
picions with  regard  to  the  donor,  and  though  he 
regretted  the  nature  of  the  obligation,  he  could 
not  but  think  it  was  prompted  by  kindness  to  an 
observation  of  Clara's  imitative  decorations.  The 
truth  was,  Clara  had  been  exceedingly  annoyed  by 
the  questions  she  could  not,  or  rather  would  not 
answer. 

Some  one  had  suggested  that  it  was  a  present 
from  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  though  she  did  not  affirm 
it,  actually,  she  was  glad  to  admit  the  idea,  as 
an  escape  from  further  persecution  on  the  subject. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        203 

Still  her  conscience  writhed  under  the  implied 
falsehood,  and  she  dreaded  its  detection.  To  add 
to  her  mortification,  she  overheard  some  one  remark 
"that  Clara  Stanley  need  not  put  on  so  many  airs 
about  her  new  chain,  for  it  was  nothing  but  pinch- 
beck, and  had  a  strong  smell  of  brass." 

She  rejoiced  when  the  hour  of  retiring  arrived; 
and  when  she  reached  home,  she  ran  up  stairs, 
went  to  bed,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  Poor  Clara ! 
she  awakened  that  night  from  a  terrible  fit  of  the 
nightmare,  for  she  dreamed  that  her  grandmothers 
icy  hands  were  groping  about  her  neck  for  the 
beads  she  had  bartered,  that  the  cold  grasp  grew 
tighter  and  tighter,  her  breath  shorter  and  shorter, 
till  she  screamed  and  awoke.  She  dreaded  the  next 
day  her  brother's  questioning  about  the  mysterious 
chain;  but,  absorbed  in  his  own  deep,  overmaster- 
ing emotions,  he  forgot  the  subject  when  the  glit- 
tering bauble  was  removed  from  before  his  eyes. 
From  this  time  a  change  was  observable  in  his 
character.  He  became  as  silent  and  abstracted  as 
he  had  before  been  gay  and  communicative.  He 
no  longer  talked  of  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  even  to  Fanny 
he  was  cold  and  constrained.  Fanny  preserved  the 
same  equanimity  of  feeling,  though  she  missed 
Edward's  vivacity  and  smiles,  and  openly  lamented 
the  transformation.  She  looked  rather  more  serious 
than  usual,  but  the  azure  of  her  eye  was  undimmed, 
and  the  soft  rose  of  her  cheek  remained  undi- 
minished  in  bloom.  Edward  turned  from  the  same- 
ness and  lustre  of  her  countenance,  to  gaze  upon 


204  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

the  changing  face  that  "pale  passion  loved" — and 
while  he  acknowledged  the  hopelessness  of  his  in- 
fatuation, he  brooded  over  it,  till  it  enervated  all 
the  energies  of  his  soul.  It  was  fortunate  for  his 
mind,  that  domestic  circumstances  of  a  perplexing 
nature  roused  it  into  exercise.  Some  very  unex- 
pected claims  were  made  against  the  estate.  Mr. 
Stanley  had  died  suddenly,  and  left  his  affairs  con- 
siderably involved,  but  his  family  now  believed  every 
thing  was  settled,  and  that  the  small  property 
which  remained  was  all  their  own.  With  the 
strictest  economy  it  was  just  sufficient  for  a  genteel 
support,  and  that  was  all.  They  had  no  means 
of  meeting  this  unexpected  exigency,  but  by  the 
sale  of  the  house — a  sorrowful  expedient,  for  it 
was  endeared  by  every  association  connected  with 
a  husband's  and  a  father's  love — besides  it  was  their 
home,  and  where  should  they  look  for  another? 
Edward  remembered  the  letter  of  his  grandmother. 
He  wanted  but  a  few  months  of  being  of  age,  and 
the  hour  of  trouble  had  arrived.  He  opened  and 
read  it,  then  gave  it  into  his  mother's  hands  with 
a  countenance  illuminated  with  joy. 

"It-  is  all  well,  dear  mother — more  than  well — 
though  dead  she  yet  continues  her  guardianship 
of  love.  Clara,  where  is  the  trunk  whose  value  I 
have  just  learned?  It  will  save  us  from  ruin." 

Clara  looked  aghast. 

"The  trunk!"  stammered  she — "what  good  can  it 
do  us?" 

"Bead  that  letter —it  will  explain  it." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        205 

The  explanation  may  be  given  to  the  reader  in 
fewer  words.  The  trunk  contained  a  false  bottom, 
in  which  the  good  lady  had  placed  deeds  and  papers, 
containing  an  amount  of  property  which  made  a 
rich  legacy  to  her  grandson.  Knowing  the  tempta- 
tions to  which  youth  is  exposed,  and  knowing  toe 
that  necessity  calls  forth  the  noblest  powers  of  man- 
kind; she  did  not  wish  him  to  know  of  the  exist- 
ence of  this  property  till  he  became  of  age;  and 
being  somewhat  eccentric  in  her  character,  and 
fond  of  surprises,  she  had  adopted  this  singular 
method  of  bequeathing  to  him  her  fortune.  Clara 
read  the  letter,  and  sat  like  a  statue  of  stone.  She 
wished  the  earth  to  open  and  swallow  her,  the  moun- 
tains to  fall  and  crush  her  to  atoms,  to  save  her 
from  the  remorse  and  shame  that  had  overtaken 
her. 

"Clara,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Edward,  sitting 
down  by  her  side;  "can  you  not  go  for  the  trunk, 
Clara?" 

The  unhappy  girl  tried  to  speak,  but  only  uttered 
a  piercing  shriek,  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  floor. — 
Excessively  alarmed,  they  raised  and  endeavoured 
to  bring  her  to  composure,  but  she  continued  to 
wring  her  hands  and  exclaimed — 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done!  what  have  I  done!" 

They  gathered  at  length  from  her  broken  sen- 
tences, the  extent  of  their  misfortune.  The  treasure 
was  lost,  irredeemably  lost,  for  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  trace  the  course  of  one  who  led  an  itinerant 
life,  and'  was  probably  now  in  some  remote  part 


206  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

of  the  country.  If  it  ever  were  discovered,  it 
would  probably  be  at  some  distant  day,  and  the 
demand  was  immediate  and  pressing.  Neither  Mrs. 
Stanley  nor  Edward  could  add  to  the  agonies  of 
Clara's  remorse,  by  unavailing  reproaches,  but  they 
both  keenly  felt  how  much  it  added  to  thpir  cala- 
mity, to  think  the  means  their  guardian  angel  held 
out  for  their  relief,  was  wrested  from  them  by  the 
hands  of  a  daughter  and  a  sister. 

"  We  must  submit,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  "to  the  will  of  God." 

"We  must  act"  said  Edward,  "and  be  not  cast 
down,  my  mother.  If  Heaven  spares  my  life  and 
health,  we  shall  never  know  one  real  want.  In 
this  country  there  is  no  such  thing  as  poverty,  and 
as  to  vanity  and  show,  let  Clara's  bitter  lesson  prove 
the  emptiness  of  their  claims." 

When  it  was  known  that  Mrs.  Stanley's  dwelling- 
house  was  advertised  for  sale,  to  satisfy  the  demands 
of  impatient  creditors,  there  was  much  astonishment 
and  sorrow,  for  she  was  a  woman  universally  belovd 
for  her  meekness,  loving  kindness,  and  tender 
charities.  The  neighbours  gathered  in  to  question 
and  condole,  and  great  was  the  sympathy  expressed 
for  Clara's  inconsolable  grief.  They  did  not  know 
the  secret  burden  that  weighed  her  to  the  dust,  and 
wondered  much  to  see  the  young  bowed  down  so 
heavily,  while  Mrs.  Stanley  seemed  so  calm  and 
resigned.  Fanny  Morton  was  very  sorry,  and  ex- 
pressed herself  on  the  occasion  with  all  the  depth 
of  feeling  of  which  her  tranquil  nature  was  capable, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        207 

but  Edward  more  than  ever  felt  the  immeasurable 
distance  of  their  souls.  Hers  could  not  comprehend 
the  depth  and  sensibility  of  his.  The  lightning  of 
heaven,  and  the  cold  phosphorescent  light  of  earth 
are  not  more  different  in  their  properties.  Mrs. 
Clifton  came,  but  not  with  the  cro\vd.  She  waited 
till  others  accused  her  of  standing  aloof  from  her 
favourites  in  the  day  of  adversity.  She  came  alone, 
leaving  her  carriage,  her  servants,  and  all  the  par- 
aphernalia of  her  wealth  behind  her.  Mrs.  Stanley 
knew  how  to  appreciate  this  delicacy,  as  well  as 
the  added  deference  and  respect  of  her  manners. 
She  asked  no  questions — she  added  no  condolence 
— she  came,  she  said,  to  solicit  a  favour,  not  to 
confer  one.  She  wished  to  become  purchaser  of 
their  beautiful  cottage,  whose  situation  she  had 
so  much  admired.  She  had  learned  that  her  father 
had  desired  to  become  the  owner  of  the  lot,  if 
Mr.  Stanley  ever  disposed  of  it.  She  was  anxious 
herself  that  it  should  not  pass  into  other  hands, 
and  to  secure  their  continuance  in  the  neighbourhood. 

"  If  by  gratifying  my  father's  known  wish,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Clifton,  her  brilliant  eyes  softened  by 
visible  emotion,  "I  can  relieve  you,  Mrs.  Stanley, 
from,  I  trust,  a  transient  embarrassment,  I  shall  not 
consider  myself  less  your  debtor — wlien  the  time 
comes  that  you  desire  to  reclaim  it,  I  will  not  with- 
hold its  restoration." 

The  tears,  which  sorrow  had  not  wrung  from  Mrs. 
Stanley's  eyes,  now  fell  fast  from  gratitude.  She 
pressed  'Mrs.  Clifton's  hand  in  hers,  and  said,  in  a  low 


208  COURTSHIP    AND   MARRIAGE  ;   OK,   THE 

voice,  "You  have  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing 
for  joy — may  heaven  reward  you  for  your  kind- 
ness." 

Clara,  incapable  of  restraining  herself  longer,  threw 
her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  sobbed  out,  "Oh, 
madam,  you  have  saved  me  from  despair.'' 

Mrs.  Clifton,  who  attributed  her  words  to  the 
natural  regret  of  a  young  and  ardent  heart,  on  the 
prospect  of  quitting  the  home  of  childhood,  warmly 
returned  the  involuntary  embrace,  and  bid  her  call 
back  her  smiles,  and  be  ready  to  accompany  her  on 
the  morrow  in  a  botanical  excursion.  When  she  rose 
to  depart,  Edward  rose  also  to  accompany  her  home. 
He  was  no  longer  gloomy  and  reserved.  He  no  longer 
looked  upon  her  as  an  enchantress,  moving  high 
above  him,  in  a  region  of  inaccessible  light  and 
splendour,  but  as  a  woman,  endowed  with  all  the 
warm  and  lovely  sensibilities  of  her  sex — a  being 
whom  he  might  dare  to  love,  though  he  coul^l  never 
hope  to  obtain — who  might  forgive  the  homage,  even 
though  she  rejected  the  worshipper.  Had  not  humility, 
always  the  accompaniment  of  deep  and  fervent  passion, 
ruled  his  perceptions,  he  might  have  derived  an  in- 
spiration for  his  hopes,  from  the  softened  language  of 
her  eyes — a  language  which  others  had  not  been  slow- 
in  translating.  They  entered  the  magnificent  saloon. 
The  contrast  its  gilded  walls  presented  to  the  agitated 
scene  they  had  left,  was  felt  by  both. 

"  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina,"  said  she,  in  an 
accent  half  sad  and  half  sportive, — "  silence  is  in  the 
house  of  her  fathers." 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        209 

"  Dwells  there  no  joy  in  song,  white  hand  of  the 
harp  of  Lutha  ?"  continued  Edward,  in  the  same  poetic 
language,  and  drawing  the  harp  towards  her.  It  is 
always  delightful  to  find  the  train  of  our  own  thoughts 
pursued  by  a  friend — proving  that  we  think  in 
unison.  Mrs.  Clifton  felt  this  as  she  swept  her  hands 
over  the  chords,  and  called  forth  that  sweet  and  im- 
passioned melody  peculiar  to  the  daughters  of  Italy. 
She  paused,  and  her  dark  eye  rested  a  moment  on  the 
%ce  of  her  auditor.  It  was  partly  shaded  by  his  hand, 
and  she  saw  that  he  was  overcome  by  some  powerful 
emotion.  Again  she  sang,  but  her  voice  was  low, 
and  she  ceased  at  length  as  if  weary  of  the  effort. 

"  You  seem  spell-bound  by  the  genius  of  silence," 
said  she ;  "  I  should  be  wrong  to  break  the  charm." 

"  I  know  I  must  appear  more  than  stupid,"  replied 
he,  "  when  there  is  every  thing  around  to  inspire  me. 
But  my  feelings  have  been  deeply  oppressed  by 
anxiety,. and  the  weight  of  anxiety  has  been  removed 
by  a  debt  of  gratitude,  which,  however  pleasing  and 
gracefully  imposed,  is  only  too  deeply  felt." 

"  Oh !  let  not  your  pride  be  jealous  of  the  happiness 
I  have  dared  this  day  to  purchase.  What  have  I  done 
for  you  and  yours,  half — half  so  precious  to  YOUR  re- 
membrance, as  to  mine?  Your  sister's  tearful  blessing, 
your  mother's  hallowed  prayer." 

She  spoke  with  fervor  and  sensibility,  and  her 
countenance  was  lighted  up  with  such  an  exalted  ex- 
pression, Edward  was  scarcely  able  to  restrain  the 
impetuous  impulses  of  passion  that  urged  him  on. 
The  confession  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  pride  and 


210         JOVS   AND   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN*   LIFE. 

poverty,  two  stern  monitors,  stood  by  his  side,  an& 
forbade  the  avowal  of  his  madness  and  presump- 
tion. 

"No I"  said  he  to  himself,  "let  me  live  on  in  tho 
silence  and  secrecy  of  hopeless  devotion,  rather  than 
by  unguarded  rashness  risk  the  loss  of  that  confi- 
dence so  dangerous,  yet  so  delightful.  She  allows  me 
to  be  her  friend.  Let  me  never  dare  to  aspire  to 
more  " 

Thus  reasoned  Edward  Stanley,  and  thus  he 
schooled  the  language  of  his  lips — but  the  passion 
denied  utterance  in  words,  flashed  from  his  eyes,  and 
modulated  every  accent  of  his  voice.  He  looked  back 
upon  this  evening,  passed  alone  with  Mrs.  Clifton, 
amidst  the  breathings  of  poetry  and  music,  and  ex- 
ulted in  the  reflection  that  he  had  not  committed 
himself  by  any  act  of  imprudence  he  might  hereafter ' 
vainly  rue.  Sometimes  his  feelings  rose  up  against 
Clara,  for  the  selfish  vanity  that  had  led  her  to  sacri- 
fice the  fortune  that  might  have 'placed  him  above 
the  suspicion  of  mercenary  motives,  but  her  unap- 
peasable sorrow  for  her  transgression,  would  not 
allow  him  to  cherish  any  resentment  towards  her 
Sometimes  too,  his  conscience  reproached  him  for  the 
part  he  was  acting  towards  Fanny,  the  idol  of  his 
boyish  fancy — but  every  hour  passed  in  her  presence, 
convinced  him  that  she  looked  upon  him  more  as  a 
brother  than  a  lover,  and  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of 
constitutional  indifference,  she  seemed  scarcely  awara 
of  the  wandering  of  his  heart. 

"Oh I  I  am  so  glad  vou  are  not  going  to  leave  usl 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        211 

I  do  not  know  how  I  should  live  without  you  and 
Clara." 

Fanny's  most  ardent  expression  in  joy  and  sorrow, 
was,  "  I  am  so  glad — I  arn  so  sorry."  It  was  a  great 
deal  for  her  to  say — but  she  looked  at  Clara  exactly 
as  she  did  at  him,  and  Edward,  whose  heart  was  now 
enlightened,  felt  that  she  did  not  love  him,  and  ho 
rejoiced  in  the  conviction. 

One  evening,  just  between  twilight  and  darker 
hour,  he  was  returning  from  a  long  walk,  wnen,  a 
little  before  he  left  the  woodland  path  that  led  into 
the  public  road,  he  met  an  old  woman  muffled  in  a 
cloak  and  hood — he  bowed,  and  was  passing  on,  when 
she  accosted  him  in  a  voice  that  was  not  unknown, 
and  approaching  nearer  to  her,  he  knew  by  the 
spectacles  gleaming  through  the  shades,  under  the 
deeper  shade  of  a  mob-cap,  his  ancient  friend  of  the 
stage-coach,  and  he  greeted  her  with  great  cordiality. 
She  told  him  she  was  travelling  about  as  usual,  and 
had  stopped  in  the  village  to  make  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Clifton,  the  granddaughter  of  her  old  friend. 

"It  is  growing  dark  and  late,"  said  he,  "let  me  see 
you  safe  to  her  house,  for  you  have  mistaken  the  path 
that  leads  to  it." 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  cried  she,  "  if  you  are  not  in  too 
much  haste,  and  let  me  rest  on  this  log  by  the  way- 
side. I  am  old,  and  it  wearies  me  to  walk  fast.  Sit 
down,  young  man,  and  let  me  ask  after  your  welfare. 
I  have  not  forgotten  your  kindness  to  the  aged,  nor 
ever  shall  I." 

Edward  brushed  the  dust  from  the  log  with   his 


212  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,  THB 

handkerchief,  and  preparing  a  seat  for  her,  with  great 
reverence  placed  himself  at  her  side. 

"Come,"  said  she,  "I  nmst  soon  be  gone,  but  I 
want  to  know  if  I  can  serve  you.  I  am  an  eccentric 
old  creature,  but  I  am  well  off  in  the  world,  and  when 
I  die,  I  cannot  carry  my  money  into  the  grave.  I  am 
told  there  is  a  pretty  young  girl  in  the  neighbourhood, 
whom  you  love,  and  would  marry,  were  you  not  poor 
Do  not  blush  to  own  it,  for  if  it  is  so,  and  I  can  make 
you  happy  by  my  means,  I  shall  bless  the  hour  that 
brought  us  together,  even  near  the  end  of  my  pil- 
grimage." 

Her  tremulous  voice  faltered,  and  she  raised  her 
handkerchief  under  her  spectacles. 

"  Thank  you,  a  thousand  times,  for  your  generous 
offer,"  replied  Edward,  much  moved;  "but  indeed, 
madam,  you  are  misinformed.  I  would  not  marry,  if 
I  could." 

"Young  man,"  cried  she,  "you  are  not  sincere. 
The  heart  craves  for  a  kindred  heart.  You  would 
not  live  alone.  Confide  in  me,  and  I  will  not  betray 
you.  Trifle  with  me,  and  you  may  lose  a  friend, 
whose  professions  are  not  lightly  made.  Tell  me,  do 
you  not  love  the  fair  girl,  whom  they  call  the  beauty 
of  the  village,  or  is  it  but  a  passing  rumour  that  has 
reached  my  ears  ?" 

Edward  wondered  at  the  interest  this  singular  old 
woman  expressed  in  his  destiny,  but  he  did  not  doubt 
its  sincerity,  and  he  would  not  repay  it  with  dissimu- 
lation. 

"No,  madam,  I  do  not  love  her,  otherwise  than 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN  LIFE.        213 

with  brotherly  kindness.  "Where  I  do  love,  T  can- 
not hope,  and  all  your  generosity  cannot  avail  me 
there." 

"  Where  ?"  said  she.  "  I  want  no  half  confidences 
The  imagination  of  age  is  dull  to  that  of  youth.  Tell 
me  all,  or  nothing." 

"  There  is  one,  then,  with  whom,  were  she  poor, 
beggary  would  be  a  paradise,  but  whom  fortune  has 
placed  so  far  beyond  my  reach,  it  would  be  madness 
to  name,  and  presumption  to  aspire  to.  Sometimes, 
emboldened  by  her  condescension,  I  have  dared  to 
think,  had  my  lot  been  different — but  no — it  can 
never  be — I  need  not  say  more — you  know  where 
your  steps  are  bound." 

A  silence  followed  this  avowal,  and  Edward  was  so 
much  absorbed  by  his  own  feelings,  as  almost  to 
forget  the  presence  of  his  companion.  At  length  she 
spoke. 

"  I  do  not  see  the  great  presumption  of  your  hopes 
if  you  mean  the  Widow  Clifton.  I  see  nothing  to 
make  her  beyond  your  reach,  unless  you  choose  your- 
self to  put  her  up  in  the  clouds.  She  is  rich,  it  is  true, 
but  what  does  she  want  in  another  ?  She  has  found  co 
joy  in  wealth.  I  know  the  history  of  her  marriage; 
it  was  involuntary  on  her  part,  and  brought  no  happi- 
ness— a  state  of  splendid  bondage.  Why  do  you  not 
at  least  learn  from  her,  whether  your  love  is  hopeless? 
If  I,  an  old  woman — if  my  heart  warmed  towards 
you,  the  first  moment  I  saw  you, — is  her  young 
bosom  made  of  stone,  that  it  cannot  be  melted  or  im- 


214  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE,    OR,   THE 

"She  has  often  spoken,"  said  Edward,  finding  an 
increasing  fascination  in  the  subject,  and  drawing  still 
nearer  his  aged  friend,  "of  the  loneliness  of  her 
destiny,  and  of  the  insufficiency  of  wealth,  to  satisfy 
the  cravings  of  the  heart.  Then  wild  dreams  dazzled 
my  imagination,  and  gilt  the  future  with  the  hues  of 
heaven.  But  the  dread  of  being  banished  from  her 
presence,  of  incurring  the  displeasure  of  one  who 
had  been  the  benefactress  of  our  family — you,  who 
are  now  in  the  winter  of  your  days,  can  have  no  con- 
ception of  the  strength  of  these  mental  conflicts — this 
warring  of  fire  and  ice." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  the  memories  of  youth,"  she 
answered ;  "  and  impassive  as  you  believe  me,  there 
is  an  image  cherished  in  my  breast,  whose  traits  the 
waves  of  oblivion  can  never  efface,  nor  the  snow  of 
age  ever  chill.  Few  can  love  as  I  have  loved ;  and 
love  with  me,  is  immortal  as  the  divine  spark  that 
lights  up  this  perishing  frame." 

She  leaned  tremblingly  against  the  shoulder  of 
Edward,  who  reproached  himself  for  calling  up 
emotions  so  sublime-  in  their  strength,  thus  glowing 
and  triumphant,  amidst  the  ruins  of  beauty  and  youth. 
He  drew  her  cloak  more  closely  around  her,  and 
warned  her  that  the  night  dew  was  falling. 

"You  are  right,"  said  she,  rising;  "I  was  forgetting 
I  am  not  young  like  you." 

They  walked  slowly  on,  in  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Clifton's  house. 

"  May  I  not  ask  the  name  of  the  friend,  to  whose 
kindness  I  am  so  much  indebted  ?"  cried  he. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        215 

"Oh,"  replied  she,  laughing,  "I  thought  every 
body  knew  Aunt  Bridget;  for  I  am  one  of  those 
universal  aunts,  whom  every  body  knows,  and  nobody 
cares  for.  My  property  is  my  own,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  bequeath  it  to  whomsoever  I  please.  I  have 
chosen  you  as  my  heir,  and  you  may  consider  your- 
self equal  in  fortune  to  Widow  Clifton,  or  any  other 
widow  in  the  land.  Not  a  word  of  thanks — no  grati- 
tude— at  least  till  legal  measures  are  taken  to  secure 
it  to  your  possession." 

"Singular  and  generous  being!"  said  Edward; 
beginning  to  believe  her  brain  was  somewhat  un- 
sound, "what  have  I  done  to  excite  so  romantic  an 
interest,  what  can  I  do  to  prove  myself  worthy  of  it  ?" 

"  Be  sincere — truth  is  the  only  bond  of  love,  and 
concealment  with  friends  is  falsehood." 

They  had  now  reached  the  gate  of  the  avenue. 

"  You  will  go  in  ?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  see  her  to-night;  to-mor- 
row, perhaps — shall  I  see  you  then  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  the  morrow  will  bring  forth. 
But  one  thing  let  me  say,  young  man,  ere  we  part. 
You  must  plead  your  own  cause,  and  not  expect  it 
will  be  done  by  me.  If  you  have  not  moral  courage 
and  manly  spirit  sufficient  to  meet  the  consequences, 
whatever  they  may  be,  you  merit  the  downfall  of  your 
hope,  and  the  humiliation  of  your  pride." 

She  closed  the  gate,  and  Edward  watched  her  dark 
shrouded  figure  slowly  treading  the  winding  path, 
and  almost  imagined  he  had  been  with  one  of  those 
sibylline  priestesses,  who  opened  their  lips  in  pro- 


216  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

phecy,  and  shadowed  the  mystic  outlines  of  futurity. 
"Whatever  she  may  be,"  thought  he,  "I  will  be 
guided  by  her  counsel,  and  abide  by  the  result." 

As  he  drew  near  his  own  home,  and  saw  the  light 
shining  so  quietly  and  brightly  through  the  trees  that 
quivered  gently  as  in  a  golden  shower,  and  thought 
how  tranquilly  the  hearts  of  the  inmates  now  beat, 
secure  from  the  fear  of  being  driven  from  that  love- 
hallowed  home — when  he  reflected  that  for  this  peace, 
BO  beautifully  imagined  in  the  scene  before  him,  they 
were  indebted  to  the  very  being  whose  recollection 
excited  the  throbbing  of  a  thousand  pulses  in  his 
heart  and  in  his  brain, — gratitude  so  mingled  with 
and  chastened  his  love,  that  every  breathing  became 
a  prayer  for  her  happiness,  even  if  it  were  to  be  pur- 
chased at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own. 

He  saw  Clara  through  the  window,  seated  at  a 
table,  with  some  object  before  her,  which  was  shaded 
by  the  branches,  but  her  attitude  was  so  expressive 
that  he  stood  a  moment  to  contemplate  her  figure. 
Her  hands  were  clasped  in  a  kind  of  ecstacy,  and  her 
cheeks  were  coloured  with  a  bright  crimson,  strikingly 
contrasting  with  their  late  pallid  hue.  Something 
hung  glittering  from  her  fingers,  upon  which  she 
gazed  rapturously  one  moment, — then,  bending  for- 
ward the  next,  she  seemed  intent  upon  what  was  be- 
fore her.  He  opened  the  door  softly  ;  she  sprang  up, 
and,  throwing  her  arms  around  him,  cried  in  an  ac- 
cent of  hysterical  joy — 

"Dear   brother — the   trunk    is   found — there  it  is, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        217 

oh!  I  am  so  hoppy!"  And  she  wept  and  laughed 
alternately. 

There  indeed  it  was — the  identical  trunk — whose 
loss  had  occasioned  so  much  sorrow, — with  its  red 
morocco  covering  and  bright  nails  untarnished.  Ed- 
ward rejoiced  more  for  Clara's  sake  than  his  own — for 
her  remorse,  though  salutary  to  herself,  was  harrowing 
to  him. 

"Explain  this  mystery,  dear  Clara,  and  moderate 
these  transports.  How  have  you  recovered  the  lost 
treasure  ?" 

"Oh!  it  was  the  strangest  circumstance!  Who  do 
you  think  had  it,  but  Mrs.  Clifton,  that  angel  sent 
down  from  heaven,  for  our  especial  blessing." 

"You  know  I  went  there  to-day,  about  the  time 
you  took  the  walk  in  the  woods.  My  heart  was  so 
full  of  grief  for  my  folly,  and  gratitude  for  her  kind- 
ness, I  thought  it  would  have  burst,  and  I  told  her 
all ;  no,  not  quite  all — for  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  tell  her  that  it  contained  your  property ;  her  eye 
seemed  to  upbraid  me  so  for  betraying  the  trust ;  but 
again  it  beamed  with  joy  because  she  could  restore  to 
me  both  sacred  relics." 

Here  she  held  up  the  beads,  now  a  thousand  times 
more  precious  to  her  than  all  the  chains  in  the 
world. 

"The  pedler  called  there,  after  he  left  me.  She 
recognized  the  trunk,  as  it  bore  the  name  of  a  friend." 

Edward's  cheek  burned  with  emotion — for  his  own 
name,  Edward  Stanley,  was  wrought  upon  the  velvet 
lining,  but  Clara  went  breathlessly  on. 


218  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  She  gathered  from  the  pedler  the  history  of  the 
beads,  and  purchased  them  both,  that  she  might,  on 
some  future  day,  have  the  pleasure  of  restoring  them. 
She  understood  the  sacrifice  my  foolish  vanity  had 
made,  and  anticipated  the  repentance  that  would  fol- 
low. Is  she  not  a  friend,  the  best  and  kindest,  and 
ought  we  not  to  love  her  as  our  own  souls  ?  And  can 
you  forgive  me,  Edward — will  you  forgive  me,  though 
I  fear  I  never  shall  be  able  to  pardon  myself?" 

."Forgive  you,  my  sister?  Let  me  only  see  once 
more  the  sweet,  unaffected  girl,  who  was  the  object 
of  my  approbation,  as  well  as  my  love,  and  I  ask  no 
more." 

He  now  examined  the  secret  recess  of  the  trunk, 
and  found  the  papers  safe  and  untouched.  Their 
value  transcended  his  most  sanguine  expectations.  He 
could  redeem  the  paternal  dwelling,  meet  the  demands 
which  had  involved  them  in  distress,  and  still  find 
himself  a  comparatively  rich  man. 

Clara  ran  out  of  the  room,  and,  bringing  back  the 
chain — the  "  cause  of  all  her  woe," — she  put  it  in  a 
conspicuous  corner  of  her  work-box. 

"I  will  never  wear  this  paltry  bauble  again,"  cried 
she;  "but  I  will  keep  it  as  a  memento  of  my  vanity, 
and  a  pledge  of  my  reformation.  I  will  look  at  it  a 
few  moments  every  day,  as  the  lady  did  upon  the 
skeleton  of  her  lover,  to  remind  me  of  the  sins  of 
mortality." 

When  Clara  had  left  them  with  a  joyous  "good 
night,"  Mrs.  Stanley  drew  her  chair  next  to  her  son, 
and  looked  earnestly  in  his  face. 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        219 

"There  is  something  I  ought  to  mention,"  said  she, 
"and  yet  I  cannot  bear  to  damp  your  present  satis- 
faction. I  have  been  told  of  an  intended  marriage, 
which  I  fear  will  disappoint  your  fondest  hopes.  I 
trust,  however,  you  have  too  much  honest  pride  to 
suffer  your  feelings  to  prey  upon  your  happiness." 

Edward  started  up,  and  pushed  his  chair  against 
the  wall  with  a  violent  rebound. 

"I  cannot  bear  it,  mother — I  believe  it  would  drive 
me  mad  after  all  I  have  dared  to  dream  to-night.  I 
might,  perhaps,  live  without  her,  but  I  could  not  live 
to  see  her  married  to  another.  Fool,  credulous  fool 
that  I  was,  to  believe  that  dotard's  prophecy !" 

He  sat  down  again  in  the  chair  which  Clara  had 
left,  and,  throwing  his  arms  across  the  table,  bent  his 
face  over  them,  and  remained  silent. 

"Alas I  my  son,"  cried  Mrs.  Stanley,  "I  feared  it 
would  be  so.  Mr.  Morton  feels  for  you  the  tenderness 
of  a  father,  but " 

"Mr.  Morton,  did  you  say?"  cried  Edward,  starting 
up  again,  at  the  risk  of  upsetting  chairs,  tables,  and 
lamps, — "I  believe  I  am  out  of  my  senses;  and  is  it 
Fanny  Morton  who  is  going  to  be  married  ?" 

The  sudden  change  in  his  countenance,  from  despair 
to  composure,  quite  electrified  Mrs.  Stanley.  She 
could  not  comprehend  such  great  and  sudden  self- 
control. 

"Mr.  Morton  tells  me,"  she  continued,  "that  Fanny 
is  addressed  by  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and  respecta- 
bility, and  one  who  is  every  way  a  desirable  con- 
nection. He  has  learned  from  Fanny  that  no  engage- 


220  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ment  subsisted  between  you ;  but  he  seemed  appre- 
hensive that  your  affections  were  deeply  interested, 
and  wished  me  to  soften  the  intelligence  as  much  as 
possible." 

Edward  smiled.  "  Tell  Mr.  Morton  I  thank  him 
for  his  kind  consideration,  for  no  one  can  rejoice  in 
Fanny's  prospects  more  than  I  do." 

Mrs.  Stanley  was  bewildered,  for  she  had  not 
dreamed  of  his  present  infatuation. 

"I  cannot  understand  how  resignation  can  be 
acquired  so  soon,  especially  after  such  a  burst  of 
frenzy.  I  fear  it  is  merely  assumed  to  spare  my 
feelings." 

"I  cannot  feign,  dear  mother,  though  I  may  conceal. 
Dismiss  all  fears  upon  this  subject,  for  were  Fanny  to 
live  a  thousand  years  in  all  her  virgin  loveliness — if 
nature  permitted  such  a  reign  to  youth  and  beauty — 
she  would  never  be  sought  after  as  the  bride  of  your 
son." 

He  kissed  his  mother,  and  bade  her  a  hasty  "good 
night,"  anxious  to  avoid  explanation  on  a  subject 
which  had  already  agitated  him  so  much. 

The  next  day,  when  he  reflected  on  his  extra 
ordinary  interview  with  the  old  lady  of  the  stage 
coach,  and  her  incredible  promise  in  his  behalf,  lw 
became  more  than  ever  convinced  of  her  mental  hallu- 
cination. Yet  there  was  too  much  method  in  her 

r 

madness,  if  madness  indeed  existed,  to  allow  him  to 
slight  the  impressions  of  her  words. — He  was  now 
independent,  and  hopes  that  before  seemed  presump- 
tuous, now  warmed  every  pulsation  of  his  being. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         221 

"Shall  I  even  now  follow  the  sibyl's  counsel?"  said 
he  to  himself,  as  he  bent  his  steps  at  evening  towards 
Mrs.  Clifton's  door;  but  the  moment  he  entered  her 
presence,  Aunt  Bridget,  her  promises,  and  the  world 
itself  were  forgotten.  She  met  him  with  a  smile,  but 
there  was  a  burning  glow  on  her  cheek,  and  a  hurried 
glance  of  her  eye,  that  indicated  internal  agitation. 
She  attempted  to  converse  on  indifferent  topics,  but 
her  thoughts  seemed  to  wander,  and  she  at  length 
became  silent. 

"  I  saw  a  friend  of  yours  last  night,"  said  he  with 
much  embarrassment,  for  he  knew  not  whether  his 
confessions  were  unrevealed.  "She  is  very  singular, 
but  extremely  interesting  in  her  eccentricities.  Is  she 
with  you  yet?" 

"She  is,  and  will  be  with  us  whenever  you  desire. 
Yet  I  would  first  speak  with  you,  Mr.  Stanley,  and  com- 
municate an  intelligence  which  I  trust  will  not  cost 
me  the  withdrawal  of  your  friendship.  You  have 
known  me  rich,  surrounded  with  all  the  appliance  of 
wealth  and  fashion,  and,  as  such,  envied  and  admired. 
My  fortune  has  been  transferred  into  the  hands  of 
another,  and  you  see  me  now  destitute  of  that  tinsel 
glare,  which  threw  a  radiance  around  me,  which  was 
not  rny  own.  Flatterers  may  desert  me,  but  friends — 
I  trust  I  may  retain." 

She  extended  her  hand  with  an  involuntary  motion, 
and  the  glow  forsook  her  cheek. 

'  Your  fortune  gone,"  exclaimed  Edward,  "and 
mine  restored  !"  The  next  moment  he  was  kneeling 
at  her  feet.  In  no  other  attitude  could  he  have  ex- 


222  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

pressed  the  depth  of  passion  he  now  dared  to  utter. 
"What  he  said  he  knew  not ;  he  only  felt  that  he 
was  breathing  forth  the  hoarded  and  late  hopeless 
love,  of  whose  extent  he  had  never  before  been  fully 
conscious. 

"Am  I  then  loved  for  myself  alone?"  cried  Mrs. 
Clifton ;  **  by  one,  too,  from  whom  I  have  vainly  waited 
this  avowal,  to  justify  my  preference?" 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  the  hands  that  Edward 
was  clasping  in  his  own,  as  if  her  soul  shared  the 
humility  of  his  devotion.  Who  would  have  recog- 
nized the  gay  and  brilliant  heiress,  who  once  revelled 
in  the  cold  halls  of  fashion,  in  this  tender  and  pas- 
sionate woman  ? 

"  Oh  1"  exclaimed  she,  when  the  feelings  of  both 
became  sufficiently  calm  for  explanation,  "were  I  still 
the  child  of  affluence,  I  might  have  vainly  looked  for 
the  testimony  of  that  love  which  the  vassal  of  love 
was  so  long  a  rebel  to,  to  truth,  and  to  nature.  And 
now,"  added  she,  rising,  "  let  me  not,  in  the  fulness 
of  my  heart's  content,  forget  your  old  friend,  who  is 
waiting  no  doubt,  with  impatience,  to  greet  you. 
You  will  probably  be  surprised  to  learn  that  she  is 
the  lawful  inheritor  of  my  fortune,  and  that  all  I  have 
been  so  profusely  lavishing  was  her  just  due.'' 

She  smiled  at  Edward's  unutterable  look  of  aston- 
ishment, and  closed  the  door.  He  was  left  but  a  few 
moments  to  his  own  bewildered  thoughts,  when  the 
door  again  opened,  and  Aunt  Bridget  entered,  in  the 
same  ancient  cloak  and  hood,  which  seemed  to  V)  a 
part  of  herself. 


JOYS   AXD   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        223 

"  Wisest  and  best  of  counsellors,"  said  he,  advancing 
to  meet  her,  and  leading  her  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa — 
"to  you  I  owe  the  blessings  of  this  hour.  It  was 
surely  a  propitious  star  that  shone  upon  me  when  I 
first  seated  myself  beside  you  that  memorable  night. 
Had  you  not  come  to  prove  your  claim  to  her  wealth, 
the  spell  that  bound  me  would  not  yet  have  been 
broken,  and  a  wall  of  separation  might  still  have 
arisen  between  hearts  that  have  met  and  blended,  and 
will  continue  to  mingle  through  eternity." 

Aunt  Bridget  turned  away  her  head,  and  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  lost  the  gift  of  speech. 

Somewhat  alarmed  at  her  unusual  silence,  especially 
as  he  felt  her  shaking  and  trembling  under  the  folds 
of  her  cloak,  he  leaned  over,  and  tried  to  untie  her 
hood,  so  as  to  give  her  air.  Fearing  she  would  fall 
into  a  fit,  as  she  continued  to  tremble  still  more 
violently,  he  burst  the  ribbons  asunder,  for  the  knots 
seemed  to  tighten  under  his  fingers,  and  the  cloak, 
hood,  and  mob  cap  fell  off  simultaneously ;  the  large 
green  spectacles,  too,  dropped  from  the  eyes,  which, 
laughing  and  brilliant,  now  flashed  upon  his  own — • 
and  the  arms  which  had  been  extended  to  support  a 
far  different  personage,  were  folded  in  transport 
around  the  graceful  form  of  Mrs.  Clifton. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me?"  cried  she,  when  she  raised 
those  beaming  eyes  from  his  shoulder,  "  the  wily  de- 
ception I  have  practised  ?  Will  you  forgive  me  for 
continuing  a  disguise  through  love  wnich  commenced 
from  eccentric  motives?  Young  and  unprotected,  I 
have  sometimes  found  safety  in  this  disfiguring  garb. 


224  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

Like  the  Arabian  monarch,  I  like,  occasionally,  the 
covering  of  a  mask,  that  I  may  be  able  to  read  the 
deep  mysteries  of  human  nature.  But  my  masquerade 
is  over.  I  have  now  read  all  I  ever  wished  to  learn. 
Promise  not  to  love  me  less  because  the  doom  of  riches 
still  clings  to  me,  and  I  will  pledge  life  and  fame,  that 
you  shall  find  in  Aunt  Bridget  a  faithful,  true,  and 
loving  wife." 


f  tMcr.  Sjjt  Squd  fa  %  glob  % 

CLARA  STANLEY,  at  the  time  of  her  brother's  mar- 
riage with  Mrs.  Clifton,  believed  herself  the  happiest 
of  human  beings.  The  first  wish  of  her  heart  was 
gratified,  and  she  did  not  think  it  possible  that  a  more 
ardent  one  could  quicken  its  pulsations.  She  loved 
Edward  as  a  most  affectionate  and  tender  brother; 
she  admired  him,  too,  as  the  most  handsome  and 
graceful  of  men,  and  her  pride  as  well  as  her  affection 
exulted  in  his  union  with  the  admired  and  fascinating 
widow.  Bat  after  the  excitement  attending  the  event 
had  subsided,  she  wondered  at  the  dejection  that 
weighed  down  her  spirits.  She  felt  that  there  was  a 
love  dearer  than  that  of  a  sister's  now  gladdening  his 
life,  and  that  she  must  henceforth  be  satisfied  with  a 
secondary  place  in  his  affections.  She  had  no  other 
brother,  no  sister  to  supply  his  place  as  a  companion, 
and  poor  Clara  was  often  left  to  feel  a  dearth  of  which 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        225 

she  had  never  dreamed  before.  There  was  something, 
too,  in  the  impassioned  character  of  Gertrude  (for  thus 
by  her  Christian  name  we  will  hereafter  designate  our 
former  friend  of  the  Mob  Cap)  that  threw  a  kind  of 
romance  over  every  scene  in  which  she  moved,  and 
Clara,  communing  with  her  own  heart,  would  some- 
times ask  herself  if  she  had  the  same  deep  capabilities 
of  loving,  or  if  the  being  existed,  though  yet  unseen, 
who  could  call  them  into  existence. 

An  event  soon  occurred  that  gave  a  new  colour  to 
her  dreams.  She  was  sitting  at  an  open  window,  in- 
tently reading,  when  the  unfolding  of  the  gate 
attracted  her  attention.  She  started  as  if  she  had  seen 
a  monster,  for  she  knew  at  the  first  glance  that  it  was 
a  pedler  who  was  coming  in,  and  the  sight  of  one 
filled  her  with  horror.  To  make  the  sudden  appear- 
ance more  terrific,  he  carried  in  his  hand  a  red  mo- 
rocco trunk,  almost  exactly  like  the  one  she  had  so 
shamefully  bartered,  and  unexpectedly  recovered. 

"Oh,  mother,  dear  mother!"  exclaimed  she,  starting 
up  in  dismay,  "  do  not  let  him  come  in ;  I  cannot  bear 
the  sight  of  him.  Tell  him  we  do  not  want  any 
jewels.  I  hate — I  detest  the  whole  tribe  of  pedlers. 
I  Wish " 

A  look  from  her  mother  checked  her  rash  speech. 

"  Bather  blame  yourself,  Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley, 
"  for  a  folly  for  which  I  never  would  again  upbraid 
you,  if  the  remembrance  of  it  did  not  make  you  un- 
reasonable and  unjust  to  others.  I  do  not  wish  you 
to  purchase  jewels,  but  you  must  not  be  harsh  in  your 
refusal." 


226  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"I  know  I  am  wrong,"  answered  Clara,  ingenu- 
ously ;  "  bat  you  know  not  the  agonies  of  remorse  the 
sight  of  that  man  calls  to  my  recollection." 

In  the  mean  while  the  pedler  knocked,  and  was 
admitted  by  Mrs.  Stanley,  with  her  usual  gentle 
courtesy.  He  was  a  young  man  of  quite  a  genteel 
appearance,  and  his  long  dark  hair  shading  his  fore- 
head with  its  shining  masses,  his  exceedingly  dark 
complexion,  and  dark  piercing  eyes,  reminded  Clara, 
whose  imagination  was  ever  on  the  wing  in  search  of 
romantic  resemblances  of  the  Gipsy  race.  He  placed 
his  trunk  on  the  floor,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
opened,  it  without  speaking. 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself,"  said  Clara,  with  a  nervous 
shudder,  as  the  opening  lid  displayed  the  glitter  of  the 
jewels ;  we  do  not  wish  to  purchase  any  thing." 

"  Allow  me  to  show  them  to  you,"  said  he,  with 
that  officious  politeness  peculiar  to  his  profession,  "  you 
may  be  tempted  to  change  your  resolution." 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Clara ;  "  I  have  made  a  vow 
never  to  wear  another  jewel." 

"  Not  even  a  ring  ?"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  which  she 
thought  very  bold  and  sarcastic;  and  determined  to 
repel  his  assurance,  she  took  up  the  book  which  she 
was  reading,  appeared  to  be  absorbed  by  its  contents. 

But  the  persevering  pedler  was  not  so  easily  re- 
pulsed. 

"  Will  you  not  look  at  this  beautiful  chain  ?"  said 
he,  holding  one  up  so  near  her  eyes  that  she  could  uot 
but  perceive  the  dazzle  of  the  links. 

"Surely,"  thought  Clara,  "he  must  be  my  evil  genius, 


JOYS  AXD  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        227 

sent  to  torment  me  before  my  time,  for  my  past 
offence." 

She  put  the  chain  back  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
and  an  appealing  look  to  her  mother  to  rid  her  of  his 
importunity. 

"  My  daughter  has  not  the  wish,  nor  I  the  means,  to 
purchase  your  ornaments."  said  Mrs.  Stanley  mildly, 
but  gravely;  "you  will  probably  find  others  in  the 
neighbourhood,  who  have  both." 

The  young  pedler  reluctantly  closed  his  trunk  and 
took  up  his  hat,  which  he  had  thrown  at  Clara's  feet  as 
he  knelt,  and  thus  given  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
the  name  of  Hover  written  on  the  lining.  He  observed 
the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  said  as  he  swung  the  hat 
carelessly  in  his  hand, 

"  A  very  appropriate  name,  Miss,  for  one  of  my  pro- 
fession. I  believe  it  was  what  made  me  first  think  of 
becoming  a  pedler ;  and,  as  I  am  naturally  indolent 
and  fond  of  variety,  I  find  my  roving  life  vastly  agree- 
able at  times." 

"You  are  certainly  vastly  impertinent,"  thought 
Clara,  as  he  retreated  with  a  really  graceful  bow  and  a 
bold  gaze  of  admiration,  which  displeased  Mrs.  Stanley 
very  much,  and  made  her  close  the  door  quickly  after 
him,  though  it  was  a  warm  summer  day. 

"I  do  not  like  that  man  at  all,  Clara,"  said  she, 
after  he  was  gone;  "he  is  very  assuming,  and  though 
I  reproved  you  for  your  vehemence  when  he  first 
made  his  appearance,  I  cannot  but  agree  with  you  in 
thinking  that  pedlers  are  any  thing  but  a  respect- 
able class  of  people.  A  young,  handsome,  and  appa- 


228  COURTSHIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

rently  intelligent  man,  like  him,  to  be  wasting  his  time 
in  such  an  idle,  inglorious  profession.  You  were  right 
in  checking  his  presumption  as  you  did." 

The  next  day  Clara  was  searching  her  work-basket 
for  some  stray  articles  of  sewing,  when  her  eyes  fell  on 
a  small  packet,  folded  up  in  muslin  paper. 

"I  do  not  remember  what  I  have  folded  so  carefully 
in  this  envelope,"  said  she,  as  she  loosened  the  cover- 
ing, and  a  beautiful  diamond  ring,  set  in  pearl,  dropped 
into  her  lap.  Clara  was  lost  in  astonishment,  and  ex- 
amined it  again  and  again,  almost  believing  it  an  opti- 
cal illusion.  "How  could  it  get  here?"  asked  she 
aloud;  but  she  was  alone,  and  all  the  answer  she  could 
obtain  was  from  her  own  thoughts.  "The  pedler? 
Yes,  it  must  have  been  the  pedler  1"  She  remem- 
bered that  he  had  taken  out  some  of  his  jewels,  and 
placed  them  on  the  table,  and  that  when  he  put  them 
back,  she  had  heard  some  paper  rustling  in  his  hands. 
This  could  not  have  been  the  result  of  accident, — it 
must  have  been  a  bold  design, — and  Clara  blushed  as 
if  she  had  been  detected  jn  the  act  of  stealing ;  recall- 
ing his  long,  lingering  gaze  of  admiration,  and  the 
bright,  dark  eyes  which,  in  spite  of  herself,  had  riveted 
that  gaze  on  her  memory. 

She  could  not  return  the  ring — she  could  not  keep 
it;  what  should  she  do?  She  put  it  on  her  finger, 
turned  it  in  the  sunbeams,  and  admired  its  shifting 
lustre,  and  delicate  setting.  That  it  was  intended  as 
a  token  of  the  admiration  his  looks  so  evidently  ex- 
pressed, she  could  not  doubt ;  and,  though  she  knew 
she  ought  to  be  indignant  at  the  presumption  of 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        229 

the  act,  a  throb  of  gratified  vanity  fluttered  in  her 
heart. 

The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  induced  her  to 
restore  the  ring  to  the  envelope,  and  when  her  mother 
entered,  sne  was  busily  searching  her  work-box  for 
her  thimble  and  scissors,  and  looking  in  every  direc- 
tion to  avoid  tlie  glance  that  might  notice  the  confu- 
sion of  her  own.  Shame  prevented  her  from  mention- 
ing  the  circumstance  to  her  mother,— besides,  she  did 
not  wish  to  expose  the  young  pedler  to  her  resent- 
ment for  his  secret  homage. 

"I  wonder  what  I  have  done  with  my  ring!"  said 
she,  stooping  down  that  her  heightened  colour  might 
seem  the  result  of  the  attitude. 

"  Your  ring!"  repeated  Mrs.  Stanley—"  what  ring?" 

"  Oh!  I  did  not  mean  ring,"  cried  Clara  hastily ;  "  I 

meant  my  thimble.    But  it  is  too  warm  to  be  confined 

to  the  needle  within  doors.     I  scarcely  ever  think  of 

walking  now,— Edward  is  not  with  me." 

"It  is  true,  dear  Clara,"  answered  Mrs.  Stanley, 
"you  must  feel  the  want  of  exercise.  But  you  should 
not  linger  at  home,  for  want  of  your  brother;  for  you 
must  learn  to  be  more  independent  of  him  now.  The 
paths  are  all  familliar  to  you,  and  in  our  quiet  village 
you  can  never  be  in  danger." 

Clara  felt  as  if  she  could  bless  her  mother,  for  thus 
giving  her  a  carlc-Uanche  to  ramble  about  by  herself, 
and  just  now  she  wanted  to  think  her  own  thoughts, 
and  her  own  thoughts  were  never  half  so  delightful  as 
when  she  could  look  up  to  the  blue  sky,  stretching  far 
around  her,  and  the  green  earth  beneath  her,  the  lull- 


230  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ing  sound  of  waters  in  her  ear,  and  the  fragrant 
breathings  of  the  zephyrs  on  her  brow. 

"I  will  first  go  to  Gertrude,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"and,  if  I  find  her  alone,  I  will  tell  her  about  the 
ring,  and  ask  her  what  I  must  do." 

Gertrude  met  her  at  the  entrance  of  the  avenue, 
with  one  of  her  most  brilliant  smiles. 

"You  are  the  very  person  I  most  wished  to  see," 
said  she.  "I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  that 
chivalric  cousin  of  mine,  Washington  Graham,  of 
whom  you  have  more  than  once  heard  me  speak.  He 
is  actualy  wending  his  way  hither,  so  much  charmed 
is  he  by  the  description  I  have  given  him  of  a  certain 
rural  maiden,  whom,  perchance,  you  know.  Hear  what 
he  says  himself,  Clara." 

Clara  blushed,  while  Gertrude  opened  the  letter,  and 
read  here  and  there  a  paragraph : — 

"  A  cheek  to  blush,  un  eye  to  weep,  a  heart  to  feel, 
and  a  mind  to  kindle — these  are  charms  that  exercise 
an  almost  omnipotent  sway  over  my  wayward  spirit. 
*  *  Simplicity  and  sensibility  constitute  what  is 
most  lovely  in  woman.  When  these  are  combined,  as 
they  seem  to  be  in  this  charming  new  sister  of  yours, 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  make  a  pilgrimage  to  her  shrine, 
and  glory  in  surrendering  a  liberty  of  which  so  many 
have  vainh*  attempted  to  deprive  me." 

"Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  unjust  to  yourself  and 
me?"  exclaimed  Clara,  ready  to  cry  with  unaffected 
vexation.  "You  know  I  am  the  veriest  rustic  in  the 
world.  Even  in  Edward's  company  I  fear  to  disgrace 
him,  and  how  must  I  appear  in  a  stranger's  eyes? 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        231 
I  would  not  meet   him   for  the  universe  after   such 

Clara  hesitated.  She  did  not  like  to  accuse  Ger- 
trude of  falsehood,  especially  when  too  partial  kind- 
ness had  dictated  the  act.  Gertrude  passed  her  hand 
over  Clara's  throbbing  neck,  and  looked  smilingly  into 
her  downcast  eyes. 

"  The  sister  of  Edward  Stanley  need  not  blusn  in 
the  presence  of  any  gentleman  of  the  land, — never  at 
least  for  her  own  sake — and  do  not  destroy  the  fair 
web  of  romance  I  ani  weaving  for  you,  by  false  pride 
or  false  shame.  This  cousin  of  mine  is  doomed  to  bo 
the  hero  of  your  destiny,  graced  as  he  is  with  every 
quality  to  win  and  wear  a  maiden's  heart.  Since  I 
have  robbed  you  of  a  brother,  dear  Clara,  it  is  no  more 
than  fair  that  I  should  give  you  a  lover  in  return." 

In  vain  Clara  protested  and  declared  she  never 
thought  of  a  lover,  never  wished  for  one,  and  entreated 
her  never  to  mention  the  subject;  she  could  never 
more  hear  the  name  of  Washington  Graham,  with- 
out feeling  her  cheeks  dyed  with  conscious  blushes. 

"I  dare  not  speak  of  the  ring,"  thought  she,  "to 
Gertrude  now.  If  she  has  such  magnificent  views  for 
me,  she  will  be  doubtless  displeased  at  the  presump- 
tion of  the  gift." 

With  her  thoughts  strangely  confused  between  the 
blending  images  of  Washington  Graham  and  the  ped- 
ler,  she  turned  towards  the  woodland,  and  continued 
her  walk  alone.  There  was  one  favourite  spot 
where  the  turf  seemed  greener,  the  sky  bluer,  and  the 
trees  bent  their  branches  more  lovingly  towards  those 


232  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

who  sought  the  shadow  of  their  leaves  than  any  other, 
and  thither  Clara  directed  her  steps.  She  had  con- 
cealed the  ring  in  her  bosom,  resolving  to  inquire  at 
the  earliest  opportunity,  the  route  the  pedler  had 
taken ;  but  the  opportunity  was  much  nearer  than  she 
imagined,  fer  when  she  reached  her  favourite  resting- 
place,  there  the  identical  young  gentleman  was  reclin- 
ing, leaning  on  his  red  morocco  trunk,  his  hat  lying 
on  the  grass,  and  a  poetical-looking  book  in  his 
hand. 

Clara  started  back  in  alarm  and  shame,  at  thus  sud- 
denly finding  herself  alone  with  one  whose  presump- 
tion the  restraining  presence  of  her  mother  had  failed 
to  check.  The  young  man  sprang  upon  his  feet,  but 
his  manner,  instead  of  being  bold  and  careless,  was 
modest  and  respectful. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "if  I  have  intruded  upon  a 
spot,  which,  perhaps,  is  by  right  appropriated  to  your- 
self. If  so,  forgive  the  sympathy  which  drew  me 
hither." 

Clara's  alarm  subsided  at  the  deference  of  his  ad- 
dress, but  her  embarrassment  remained. 

"I  have  no  right  here,  sir,"  replied  she,  "beyond 
your  own.  But  since  I  meet  you  so  unexpectedly,  I 
-would  wish "  Here  Clara  stammered;  for  in  restor- 
ing the  ring,  she  knew  not  how  to  avoid  wounding 
his  feelings,  without  compromising  her  own  dignity. 
She  drew  forth  the  paper,  which  she  had  concealed  in 
the  foldings  of  her  dress,  and  handing  it  toward  him, 
with  a  look  which  she  intended  to  be  cold  and  severe, 
added,  "this  ring  which  I  found  on  my  table,  I  be 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        233 

lieve  must  be  your  property.  I  was  wishing  for  an 
opportunity  to  return  it,  as  it  appears  to  be  of  value  " 

"Do  you  then  scorn  my  offering?"  said  he,  drawing 
back  with  an  air  of  deep  mortification;  "was  I  too  pre- 
sumptuous, in  daring  to  leave  this  little  token  of  the 
admiration  with  which  you  had  inspired  me?  I  know 
my  situation  is  lowly,  and  those  who  look  upon  wealth 
and  station  as  what  constitute  the  man,  may  regard  me 
with  contempt;  but  there  is  something  in  your  coun- 
tenance that  encouraged  me  to  think  you  were  above 
the  false  prejudices  of  the  world.  No!  madam,  I  can- 
not take  back  the  gift,  worthless  henceforth,  if  refused 
by  you.  It  shall  never  encircle  another's  finger;  but 
lie  in  the  grass  beneath  our  feet,  to  mingle  its  pearls 
with  the  dews  of  night." 

Poor  Clara!  assailed  by  flattery,  breathed  in  poeti- 
cal high-flown  language  such  as  she  had  read  in 
books,  but  never  expected  to  hear  addressed  to  her- 
self— delighted,  in  the  midst  of  her  confusion,  at  meet- 
ing with  so  romantic  an  incident  in  her  hitherto  un- 
eventful life — she  could  not  repulse  with  harshness 
her  humble  admirer. 

"It  is  not  from  scorn  that  I  refused  your  gift," 
answered  she;  "but  you  must  be  conscious  of  the  ex- 
treme impropriety  of  my  permitting  such  freedom  in 
a  stranger.  Your  conduct  is  very  strange,  sir — very 
unauthorized." 

"  Is  it  strange,"  said  Rover,  without  seeming  dis- 
concerted by  her  rebuke,  "  to  admire  what  is  beauti- 
ful, or  unauthorized  to  wish  it  our  own? — In  my 
somewhat  idle  and  wandering  life,  I  have  had  leisure 


234  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

to  cultivate  the  taste  and  imagination  nature  has  given 
me,  and  I  think  I  can  say,  mine  is  no  vulgar  stamp. 
Books  are  my  constant  companions,  poetry  my  pas- 
sion, and  nature  my  study  and  delight.  I  am  sure  I 
speak  what  is  true,  and  your  own  heart  can  bear  wit- 
ness to  it — there  is  something  congenial  to  your  own 
character  in  mine.  Two  kindred  souls  can  read  each 
other  at  a  glance,  while  discordant  spirits  may  remain 
strangers  for  years." 

He  accompanied  these  words  by  a  glance  such  as 
Clara  never  met  before,-  and  it  made  her  heart  throb, 
and  her  cheek  kindle.  There  was  a  glow,  too,  man- 
tling his  own  dark  cheek,  an  eloquent  commentary  on 
the  warmth  of  his  language.  She  cast  down  her  eyes, 
and  they  rested  on  the  hateful  trunk — the  badge  of 
the  pedler — and  her  mind  all  at  once  took  in  the  ridi- 
culous position  in  which  she  was  placed.  A  pedler 
for  her  lover  1  A  stranger  whom  she  had  never  seen 
but  once  before;  and  then  her  mother,  gentle  as  she  was, 
had  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  incensed  at  his  familiarity. 
Then  the  vision  of  the  proud  Washington  Graham, 
such  as  Gertrude  had  depicted,  came  in  dazzling  con- 
trast, to  increase  her  mortification.  These  thoughts, 
so  chilling  to  romance,  gave  her  sufficient  composure 
to  speak,  and  resolution  enough  to  speak  as  she 
ought. 

"I  cannot  forgive  myself  for  continuing  this  con- 
versation so  long.  I  feel  more  and  more  sensible  of 
its  impropriety.  Since  you  leave  me  no  other  alter- 
native, you  force  me  to  lay  your  treasure  where  the 
dews  of  ni'jrht  will  indeed  deface  its  lustre." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        235 

She  said  this  in  answer  to  a  deprecating  motion  of 
his  hand,  as  she  again  extended  the  ring,  and  dropping 
it  on  the  grass,  she  turned  to  depart,  glorying  in  tha 
conquest  she  had  made  over  the  weakness  and  vanity 
which  tempted  her  to  linger  and  accept  an  incense  as 
novel  as  it  was  pleasing.  Rover  crushed  the  ring 
under  his  feet,  and  his  eye  flashed  scornfully. 

"  I  see  I  am  mistaken.  Every  woman  is  a  slave  to 
opinion,  and  fears  to  follow  the  dictates  of  her  own 
heart.  A  fine  coat  and  a  fine  equipage  are  the  only 
passports  to  her  favour,  and -provided  the  world  ap- 
prove her  choice,  it  matters  not  whether  she  is  tortured 
by  unkindness,  or  frozen  by  indifference." 

Clara  stopped,  for  her  spirits  were  roused,  and  she 
forgot  her  timidity,  that  she  might  vindicate  herself 
from  such  an  assertion. 

"  Whatever  claims  you  may  offer  as  an  individual," 
said  she,  "  to  confidence  and  respect,  you  must  be  con- 
scious you  have  chosen  a  profession  that  precludes 
you,  by  its  itinerant  habits,  from  the  society  in  which 
we  mingle.  I  am  indeed  astonished  that  you  are 
willing  to  pursue  it,  ignoble  as  it  is  deemed." 

"If  I  should  tell  you  the  history  of  my  life,"  he 
answered,  more  calmly,  "you  would  find,  perhaps, 
that  I  had  been  a  rebellious  youth,  too  proud  to 
labour,  too  independent  to  solicit  favour,  who  wanted 
to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  and  thought  it  just  as 
honest  and  respectable  to  walk  through  it  with  a 
pedler's  trunk  and  a  clear  conscience  as  to  wear  a 
lawyer's  gown  or  carry  a  doctor's  lance.  But,"  added 
he,  dismissing  his  sarcastic  tone  for  one  of  deep  feel- 


236  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ing,  "  if  you  dislike  me  because  the  world  dubs  me 
pedler,  I  will  be  any  thing  and  every  thing  you  please, 
if  I  may  be  animated  with  the  hope  of  one  day  win- 
ning your  affections.  Yet  the  love  that  is  capable  of 
defying  any  reproach,  and  encountering  any  obstacle, 
that  can  trample  pride  and  vanity,  and  the  world  it- 
self, under  its  feet,  is  the  only  love  that  can  satisfy 
the  boundless  wishes  of  my  heart.  If  I  cannot  meet 
with  this,  I  will  continue  a  wanderer  through  life, 
dealing  in  tinsel  and  gewgaws,  rejoicing  the  while  in 
my  own  independence." 

It  was  impossible  for  the  imaginative  and  inex- 
perienced Clara,  to  listen  to  these  high- wrought  sen- 
timents, so  exactly  corresponding  to  her  own,  without 
being  moved.  She  could  not  disdain  one  who  laughed 
to  scorn  the  distinctions  of  society,  and  who,  proud 
of  his  inborn  wealth,  asserted  his  claims  to  regard  as 
one  of  nature's  aristocrats.  In  vain  she  sought  to 
leave  him,  till  she  had  admitted  the  possibility  that 
he  might  see  her  again,  and  had  promised,  that  the 
dread  of  meeting  him  should  not  banish  her  entirely 
from  her  wonted  walks. 

When  alone  once  more,  she  wept  at  her  impru- 
dence, and  would  have  given  worlds  to  live  over  again 
the  last  hour,  that  she  might  recall  the  faint  encoura-^- 
ment  she  had  given.  She  knew  she  was  wrong  in 
concealing  the  circumstance  from  her  mother  and 
brother;  but  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  he 
would  soon  leave  the  neighbourhood,  and  forget  his 
foolish  admiration  of  herself,  so  there  could  be  no 
necessity  of  revealing  what  would  only  expose  him  to 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        237 

their  resentment.  She  avoided,  after  this,  the  place 
where  she  had  met  him ;  but  there  were  other  shaded 
walks,  and  her  mother  told  her  that  her  health  would 
suffer  for  want  of  exercise.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  live  within  doors  all  the  time  in  warm  summer 
weather,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  she  again  encoun- 
tered the  persevering  pedler,  or  that  the  dread  and 
the  sbame  that  at  first  oppressed  her,  gradually  melted 
"iwaj  in  the  fascination  of  their  romantic  and  untold 
meetings.  Each  time  she  said  to  herself — "It  shall 
be  the  last;"  but  faint  and  wavering  are  the  resolu- 
tions of  youth,  opposed  to  the  growing  influence  of 
the  strongest  passion  of  the  heart.  He  no  longer 
carried  the  odious  red  trunk,  and  she  tried  to  forget 
that  she  had  ever  seen  it.  When  with  him,  it  was  an 
easy  task,  listening  to  such  language,  and  looked  upon 
by  such  eyes,  soft,  yet  bright,  so  luminously  dark  I 
Even  the  gipsy  hue  of  his  complexion,  gave  him  a 
wild  charm  in  her  eyes,  harmonizing,  as  it  did,  with 
his  wandering  habits  and  eccentric  character. 

As  Clara  was  walking,  lost  in  these  dangerous 
reveries,  hesitating  whether  she  should  proceed  where 
she  was  almost  sure  of  meeting  one  who  seemed  like 
an  invisible  being  to  watch  her  footsteps,  and  know 
whither  they  were  bound,  or  to  remain  nearer  the 
guardian  boundary  of  home,  she  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  horses'  feet  behind  her,  and  it  forcibly  re- 
minded her  of  her  brother's  first  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Clifton,  for  it  was  precisely  the  same  path,  and  like- 
wise near  the  sunset  hour  of  day.  She  turned  her 
head  involuntarily,  as  the  sound  came  near,  and  drew 


238  COURTSHIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

back  as  far  as  the  width  of  the  path  would  allow,  to 
permit  the  stranger  and  his  attendant  to  pass  by. 
She  did  this  with  a  quickened  pulse,  for  something 
told  her  it  must  be  Washington  Graham.  At  any 
rate,  he  was  no  vulgar  rider — for  he  was  mounted  on 
a  coal-black  horse,  splendidly  caparisoned,  and 
attended  by  a  negro,  who  rode  one  of  the  same  raven 
colour,  whose  blackness  was  contrasted  by  a  scarlet 
saddle-cloth,  that  almost  swept  the  ground.  Clara 
was  so  dazzled  by  the  magnificence  of  their  appear- 
ance, and  so  confused  by  the  thought,  that  it  was  the 
hero  appropriated  to  herself,  by  the  splendid  imagi- 
nation of  Gertrude,  she  could  not  clearly  discern  the 
gentleman's  features,  though  he  raised  his  hat  as  ho 
passed,  with  a  graceful  bow,  and  slackened  his  pace, 
till  he  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  white  house 
on  the  hill. 

"  What  a  singular  coincidence !"  said  Clara  to  her- 
self. "Just  on  this  spot  did  Edward  first  behold  Mrs. 
Clifton,  on  horseback,  too,  and  that  glance  decided  his 
destiny !"  The  ardent  glance  of  Rover  flashed  through 
her  memory,  and,  conscious  of  the  struggle  of  vanity 
and  feeling  in  the  heart,  she  believed  herself  unworthy 
of  the  homage  it  expressed. 

"  What  can  he  ever  be  to  me,  this  proud,  southern 
stranger,"  she  added,  "  who  cornes  among  us  like  an 
eastern  nabob? — and  yet  I  shall  be  to  him  an  object 
of  ridicule  and  disgust,  after  Gertrude's  glowing  de- 
scription. Had  he  never  heard  my  name,  1  might 
escape  his  notice,  but  now  it  is  impossible." 

While  her  mind  was  wrought  up  to  a  state  of 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        239 

feverish  excitement  by  the  anticipated  meeting  with 
the  dreaded  stranger,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  win- 
dows of  her  brother's  dwelling,  illuminated  as  they 
now  were,  by  the  setting  sunbeams,  and  she  could  see 
the  dark  outlines  of  the  two  riders  defined  upon  them; 
then  she  knew  that  her  conjecture  was  right.  Most 
willingly  would  she  have  sought  some  covert  in  the 
woods,  and  fed  on  berries  and  herbs  for  weeks  to 
some,  to  avoid  the  mortification  she  believed  was  in 
store  for  her; — but  she  fortunately  remembered  she 
had  a  mother,  who  was  probably  even  now  waiting 
her  return  with  anxiety,  for  the  soft  gray  of  twilight 
was  beginning  to  steal  over  sunset's  golden  tints. 

The  next  day  she  received  a  summons  from  Ger- 
trude, telling  her  there  was  to  be  a  general  gathering 
of  friends  to  welcome  the  arrival  of  her  cousin,  who 
was  all  impatience  to  behold  the  fair  rustic  whose 
image  was  already  drawn  on  his  fancy  in  such  attract- 
ive colours.  This  message  renewed  the  trepidation 
of  Clara  to  such  a  degree,  that  she  was  tempted  to 
plead  a  nervous  headache,  as  an  excuse  from  attend- 
ance. One  moment  she  was  ready  to  sink  at  the 
thought  of  her  being  contemned  and  despised — the 
next  the  possibility  that  Washington  Graham,  lordly 
as  he  seemed,  might  cast  a  favouring  glance  upon  her, 
unpretending  as  she  was,  filled  her  with  dread.  If  so, 
what  would  become  of  poor  Rover?  And  what 
would  Gertrude  think  if  she  turned  coldly  away  from 
the  attentions  of  her  gifted  cousin?  When  arraying 
herself  for  the  occasion,  she  tried  to  school  herself 
into  perfect  indifference  with  regard  to  her  appear- 


240  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ance ;  but  in  vain.  She  repeated  to  herself  a  hundred 
times,  it  was  no  matter  how  she  looked.  She  could 
not  obtain  the  stranger's  admiration,  if  she  would — 
she  would  not,  if  she  could— still  she  lingered  before 
her  mirror,  thinking  it  had  never  reflected  a  less 
pleasing  image. — She  was  entirely  divested  of  orna- 
ments, for  she  had  not  forgotten  the  bitter  lesson 
taught  by  the  tinsel  chain ;  but  the  "  ornament  of  a 
meek  and  quiet  spirit,"  which  seeks  no  praise  or 
favour,  for  any  outward  gifts,  Clara  had  not  yet 
gained.  The  same  vanity  that  led  her  to  barter  her 
self-approbation  for  a  paltry  bauble,  now  caused  her 
to  tremble,  in  anticipation  of  a  stranger's  scrutiny. — 
She  thought  it  humility,  and  would  have  wept  at  the 
suggestion,  that  one  trace  of  the  foible  that  had  lately 
cost  her  so  dear  was  still  linge/ing  in  her  heart.  The 
green  branches  were  lopped  off,  but  the  roots  still 
clung  to  the  parent,  and  when  circumstances  favoured 
their  growth,  were  ready  to  shoot  forth  with  new 
luxuriance. 

When  Clara  found  herself  in  the  illuminated  draw- 
ing-room, she  saw  nothing,  for  a  few  moments,  but 
bright  spectres  floating  before  her  eyes,  and  heard 
nothing  but  a  ringing  sound  in  her  ears— loud  as  the 
echoes  of  a  tolling  bell.  She  had  a  kind  of  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  going  through  the  ceremony  of  in- 
troduction to  a  gentleman ;  but  how  he  looked  and 
what  he  said,  she  knew  not. — He  might  have  been  tho 
veiled  prophet  Mohanna,  for  aught  she  knew  of  his 
face,  for  she  never  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  carpet,  but 
stood  clinging  to  her  brother's  arm :  her  cheeks  burn- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        241 

ing  with  blushes,  indeed  r.er  whole  face  and  even  her 
neck  was  covered  with  the  same  crimson  hue.  Clara 
knew  that  the  deep  suffusion  she  was  undergoing  was 
any  thing  but  becoming,  and  this  conviction  only 
idded  to  the  intensity  of  the  glow.  The  idea  that  she 
was  actually  in  the  presence  of  the  formidable 
Washington  Graham,  the  prophesied  hero  of  her- 
dsstiny,  was  too  overwhelming.  He  addressed  her  in 
the  common  language  of  courtesy,  but  she  could  only 
answer  in  monosyllables,  and  whispering  to  her 
brother  to  lead  her  to  a  window,  he  drew  her  away, 
pitying  her  confusion,  yet  vexed  at  her  unwonted 
awkwardness  and  taciturnity. 

"Leave  me  here,"  said  she  to  Gertrude,  who  fol- 
lowed her  to  her  retreat,  "  there  are  so  many  people 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  that  I  cannot  breathe.  I 
will  not  disgrace  you  here." 

"  I  will  leave  you,  dear  Clara,  since  you  desire  it," 
answered  she,  with  a  calm  sweetness  of  manner  that 
operated  like  a  charm  in  soothing  Clara's  preposterous 
agitation,  "and  only  remember  that  while  you  are 
just  to  yourself,  you  can  never  disgrace  us.  But  for 
my  sake,  for  Edward's  sake,  try  to  recover  your  self- 
possession,  and  give  my  kinsman  the  welcome  I  have 
dared  to  promise  him  from  the  sister  of  my  hus- 
band." 

Clara  felt  the  gentle  rebuke  conveyed  in  these  words, 
as  she  followed  with  her  eyes  Gertrude's  retreating 
figure,  admiring  that  surpassing  gracefulness  which 
distinguished  her  above  all  other  women.  She  could 
not  but  admire  still  more  the  kindness  and  forbear- 
15 


242  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ance  she  manifested  towards  one  go  untutored  and 
wayward  as  herself.  The  soft  evening  air  that  flowed 
ri  through  the  open  window,  cooled  her  fevered 
cheeks,  while  the  circumstance  of  her  being  permitted 
to  remain  quiet  much  longer  than  she  anticipated, 
composed,  while  it  mortified  her.  She  dreaded  obser- 
vation— she  equally  dreaded  neglect;  and  when  she 
saw  Washington  Graham  conversing  with  some  ladies 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  without  making  any 
effort  to  disturb  her  solitude,  and  by  their  pleased  and 
attentive  countenances  knew  that  he  was  saying  what 
seemed  very  agreeable  and  entertaining,  she  felt 

"  It  were  better  to  stand  the  lightning's  shock, 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock." 

She  had  but  a  partial  view  of  his  face,  as  it  was 
somewhat  turned  from  her,  but  his  figure  struck  her 
as  being  remarkably  graceful  and  gentleman-like.  In 
a  little  while  he  changed  his  position,  and  her  heart 
palpitated  anew,  for  she  thought  he  was  approaching 
her;  but  no!  he  was  drawing  near  his  cousin,  who, 
having  been  compelled  to  take  her  seat  at  the  harp, 
(an  instrument  which  still  possessed  all  the  charm  of 
novelty  with  her  guests,)  was  beckoning  him  to  her 
side.  Clara,  like  her  brother,  was  passionately  fond 
of  music,  and  Gertrude's  always  thrilled  to  her  very 
soul.  But  now  a  manly  voice  of  exquisite  melody 
mingled  its  deep  notes  with  hers,  and  both  blending 
with  the  full,  breeze-like  strains  of  the  harp,  "  rose 
like  a  stream  of  rich  distilled  perfume."  Edward  was 
leaning  over  the,  instrumert  in  the  same  attitude  she 


: 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         243 

remembered  to  have  seen  him  at  Mrs.  Clifton's  never- 
to-be-forgotten  party,  but  then  his  face  was  pale  and 
his  countenance  dark ;  now  it  was  lighted  up  with  an 
expression  of  fervour  and  happiness  as  intense  as  the 
human  features  are  capable  of  wearing,  and  Gertrude's 
eves,  floating  in  liquid  radiance,  were  occasionally 
lifted  to  his,  beaming  with  the  love  she  no  longer 
sought  to  bury  in  the  foldings  of  her  own  heart. 

"Surely,"  thought  Clara,  "I  have  never  loved  Ed- 
ward, or  my  nature  is  too  cold  to  love  as  she  does,  and 
yet  my  very  existence  seemed  bound  up  in  his.  Can 
there  be  a  love  stronger  than  that  which  binds  together 
an  only  brother  and  sister,  when  that  brother,  too,  ex- 
ercises a  father's  tender  guardianship,  in  place  of  him 
who  is  laid  low  with  the  dead  ?" 

As  she  asked  herself  this  question,  the  image  of 
Rover  seemed  to  glide  before  her,  and  memory  whis- 
pered, "The  glance  of  Rover,  when  it  bends  on  me, 
expresses  the  same  depth  and  fire,  and  can  it  be  that 
he  loves  me  more  than  Edward?  And  will  he  ever 
fill,  and  more  than  fill  a  brother's  place  within  my 
heart?  Dare  I  ever  avow  the  interest  he  has  inspired, 
to  those  who  have  woven  my  destiny  with  that  of  this 
dazzling  stranger?" 

At  this  moment  the  face  of  Washington  was  turned 
towards  her,  and  though  her  vision  was  somewhat 
obscured  by  the  tears  that  involuntarily  suffused  her 
eyes,  she  could  observe  its  lineaments,  and  she  thought 
she  could  trace  in  every  feature  the  pride  of  wealth 
and  conscious  superiority.  His  fine  figure  was  set  off 
by  a  dress  of  aristocratic  elegance;  his  hair  was 


244  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

arranged  in  earless  but  graceful  waves  around  his 
temples,  revealing  a  forehead,  whose  unsunned  white- 
ness plainly  indicated  that  he  at  least  was  exempt 
from  the  primeval  curse  of  earning  his  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow.  The  southern  sun  had  given  to 
his  cheeks  a  manlier  glow,  so  that  the  idea  of  effemi- 
nacy could  never  be  associated  with  Washington 
Graham,  who  looked  exactly  what  he  was,  a  gentle- 
man by  nature,  by  birth,  by  wealth,  and  by  educa- 
tion. The  music  had  so  far  subdued  Clara,  and 
carried  her  out  of  herself,  that  when  Gertrude  again 
approached  her,  accompanied  by  her  cousin,  she  re- 
ceived them  with  less  trepidation,  and  she  ventured 
to  listen  and  speak,  though  still  with  her  eyes  bowed 
down  in  "penetrative  shame."  Had  Clara  been  con- 
scious of  her  own  attractions,  she  would  not  have  suf- 
fered so  much  from  self-distrust.  She  could  not  know 
them,  for  when  she  saw  herself  reflected  in  the  look- 
ing-glass, in  the  act  of  dressing,  her  features  were  at 
rest,  and  there  was  nothing  sufficiently  striking  in 
their  outline,  or  dazzling  in  their  hue,  to  give  her  an 
exalted  image  of  her  own  loveliness.  She  never  saw 
the  roses  flitting  over  her  cheeks,  coming  and  going, 
and  coming  again,  heralds  of  the  heart's  spring-time, 
or  the  warm  and  shifting  lustre  of  her  eye,  when 
enthusiasm  or  sensibility  stirred  its  peaceful  depths. 
What  if  she  had  made  a  conquest  of  a  poor  wandering 
pedler?  This  magnificent  Washington  Graham  was  a 
very  different  kind  of  person,  and  the  idea  that  he 
would  look  upon  her  with  admiration  or  love,  was 
too  absurd  to  be  admitted,  and  it  would  certainly  ex- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        245 

pose  her  to  the  ridicule  of  all  her  acquaintances,  if  it 
were  but  known  that  it  had  ever  entered  into  her 
mind.  But  when  she  was  once  more  alone  in  her 
room,  and  reflected  on  the  events  of  the  evening, 
though  filled  with  mortification  at  her  own  want  of 
self-control,  she  rejoiced  she  had  stood  the  ordeal 
without  any  open  violation  of  decorum,  and  without 
incurring  any  visible  marks  of  contempt.  The 
thought  that  she  had  been  seen,  and  that  the  illusion 
created  by  Gertrude  was  consequently  dispelled,  was 
very  comforting  to  her.  Another  thought  gave  her  a 
feeling  of  delight  and  self-approbation — why,  she  could 
not  define — Rover  lost  nothing  in  her  estimation  in 
comparison  with  the  elegant  southerner.  She  would 
rather  live  over  again  the  moments  passed  with  him 
in  the  midst  of  nature's  loveliness,  stolen  and  hurried 
as  they  were,  and  always  accompanied  with  the  dread 
of  detection  and  the  consciousness  of  acting  a  clandes- 
tine part,  than  spend  a  thousand  such  evenings  as 
this — so  cold,  constrained  and  formal.  Clara  was  a 
mystery  to  herself — foolish  girl  that  she  was,  to  find  a 
happiness  in  contemplations  which  should  fill  her  with 
sorrow  and  self-reproach!  The  next  day,  Gertrude 
came  to  her  with  a  congratulating  smile. 

"I  feared  last  night,  dear  Clara,"  said  she,  "when 
you  acted  the  part  of  the  blushing  automaton,  that 
my  character  as  prophetess  was  more  than  endangered, 
that  it  was  lost.  But  cousin  Washington  declares 
himself  enchanted  with  that  very  bashfulness  and 
simplicity  that  deprived  you  of  your  native  grace. 
He  is  so  sick  of  the  artificial  glare  of  fashionable 


246  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

society,  so  weary  of  glitter  and  display,  his  eye  reposes 
with  delight,  as  he  expresses  it,  on  the  soft  green  of 
your  character." 

"Stop,"  cried  Clara,  "you  do  but  mock  me.  His 
practised  tongue  may  well  utter  the  language  of  flat- 
tery, but  do  not,  dearest  Gertrude,  solicit  his  admira- 
tion for  me.  To  gratify  your  affection  he  may  profess 
an  interest  I  know  he  can  never  feel.  You  know  not 
how  wounding  is  the  thought  that  I  should  be  forced, 
as  it  were,  upon  the  particular  notice  of  a  gentleman 
like  him  1" 

"  Believe  me,  Clara,"  answered  Gertrude,  earnestly, 
"  I  will  do  nothing  to  wound  your  delicacy  or  pride. 
I  will  say  nothing  more  at  present,  leaving  it  for  time 
to  unfold  events,  which  I  trust  will  justify  all  I  have 
ventured  to  express ;  one  thing  only  let  me  ask,  what 
think  you  of  my  vaunted  cousin  ?" 

"I  have  no  distinct  impression  left  on  my  mind," 
answered  Clara,  "  so  deep  was  the  embarrassment  that 
oppressed  me.  He  appeared  to  me  like  something 
bright,  lofty,  and  cold." 

"Oh,"  said  Gertrude,  "you  do  not  know  him  yet. 
Beneath  that  somewhat  cold  exterior,  the  result  of  a 
premature  experience  of  the  world's  heartlessnessv 
there  is  a  depth  of  feeling  known  only  to  those  who 
see  him  free  from  the  restraints  of  society.  Hand- 
some, intellectual  and  rich — romantic,  too,  in  the 
best  sense  in  which  that  oft  perverted  word  is  used, 
I  should  not  think  it  possible  that  Washington 
Graham  could  fail  to  win  a  young  and  disengaged 
heart  like  yours." 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        247 

The  soft  blush  that  had  hitherto  coloured  the  cheek 
of  Clara,  was  pale  to  the  crimson  that  now  dyed  its 
surface. 

"  He  leaves  us  to-morrow  for  a  few  days,"  continued 
Gertrude,  "  and  when  he  returns,  I  hope  to  see  all  my 
fondest  wishes  realized." 

Clara  breathed  as  if  recovering  from  a  fit  of  the 
nightmare.  She  pleaded  every  excuse  to  be  permitted 
to  remain  at  home  that  evening.  She  had  a  nervous 
headache,  she  was  unfit  to  appear  in  company,  she  did 
not  like  to  leave  her  mother  alone ;  in  short,  she  gave 
twenty  reasons,  any  one  of  which  was  sufficient  in 
itself  to  answer  her  purpose. 

"  My  head  really  does  ache,"  said  Clara,  after  Ger- 
trude's departure,  "  and  I  think  a  walk  in  the  fresh 
air  will  revive  me ;  though  unfit  for  company,  I  am, 
not  ashamed  of  being  seen  by  the  cattle  and  the  birds." 
How  she  dispot/ed  of  her  objections  to  leave  her  mother 
alone,  remained  a  mystery  even  to  herself.  She  had 
never  met  Eovcr  in  the  path  in  which  she  now  walked, 
and  he  could  not  know  the  direction  she  had  taken ; 
yet  she  started  when  the  wind  moved  the  branches  or 
the  birds  flew  rustling  through  the  leaves,  as  if  these 
accustomed  sounds  were  the  harbingers  of  coming 
footsteps.  She  was  unwilling  to  acknowledge  to  her- 
self the  disappointment  that  weighed  upon  her  spirits; 
but  not  finding  in  her  walk  the  exhilarating  influence 
she  anticipated,  she  turned  her  face  homeward. 

"  He  has  probably  neard  of  the  arrival  of  Wash- 
ington Graham,"  thought  Clara,  "and  believes  me 
paying  homage  to  his  wealth  and  pretensions.  He 


248  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

does  me  injustice,  but  it  is  no  matter.  Better,  Car 
better  that  we  should  never  meet  again — for  he  can 
never  be  any  thing  to  me.  Edward  would  not  disdain 
his  poverty,  for  he  was  himself  once  poor.  But  a 
pedler !  Mrs.  Clifton  would  not  have  married  Edward 
if  he  had  been  an  itinerant  pedler." 

Just  as  Clara  had  finished  these  reflections,  which 
breathed  more  of  pique  than  she  was  aware  of,  she 
heard  a  sudden  crashing  among  the  boughs,  and  the 
pedler  himself  bounded  into  the  path,  his  dark  com- 
plexion glowing  from  the  rapidity  of  his  motions, 
and  his  eye  sparkling  with  more  than  its  wonted 
fire. 

"  I  feared  that  I  might  be  forgotten,"  said  he ;  "  but 
I  see  that  I  have  wronged  you — yet  if  village  rumour 
has  been  true,  it  is  a  hopeless  devotion,  an  act  of  still 
greater  presumption.  It  says  that  a  stranger  of  wealth 
and  distinction,  conspicuous  for  the  display  and  pride 
of  his  appearance,  is  come  hither  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  addressing  and  wedding  Clara  Stanley.  It  says, 
too,  that  he  will  not  address  her  in  vain." 

The  characteristic  openness  and  boldness  of  this 
address  left  Clara  no  room  for  evasion.  She  did  not 
wish  to  acknowledge  its  truth — she  would  not  give 
utterance  to  a  falsehood.  Unpractised  in  the  arts 
which  could  teach  her  the  way  of  extrication,  she 
stood  silent  and  embarrassed,  wishing  the  good  people 
of  the  village  would  find  something  else  to  talk  about 
besides  the  Stanleys,  whose  concerns  seemed  to  in- 
terest them  so  much. 

"You  are   silent,  Clara,"  cried  he,  in  an  altered 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        249 

tone;  "you  do  not  deny  it,  and  heaven  forbid  you 
should,  if  for  once  village  gossip  has  spoken  the  truth. 
I  have  no  right  to  reproach  you — you  have  professed 
nothing — promised  nothing — and  yet  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  waking  from  the  sweetest  and  brightest  dream 
that  ever  gladdened  the  heart  of  man — the  dream  of 
imagined  perfection." 

Clara's  heart  swelled  under  the  consciousness  of 
injustice,  and  she  would  have  made  an  indignant 
reply,  but  the  deep  dejection  of  his  countenance  and 
air  inspired  her  with  pity. 

"If  I  deserved  upbraiding  from  you,"  said  she,  "I 
should  not  at  this  moment  be  dreading  the  reproaches 
of  all  whom  I  love.  "Whatever  may  be  said  of  this 
stranger's  visit,  his  coming  can  never  influence  my 
feelings  towards  you." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
She  began  to  feel  as  if  she  had  forsaken  the  "guide 
of  her  youth,"  and  rashly  given  her  happiness  into  a 
stranger's  keeping.  In  the  true  spirit  of  a  heroine, 
though  true  only  to  the  impulse  of  nature,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and,  sittting  down  at 
the  foot  of  the  tree  beneath  which  they  were  standing, 
tried  to  think  herself  miserable ;  but,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  a  thrill  of  delight  still  penetrated  her  heart, 
from  the  conviction  that  she  was  beloved.  Nothing 
was  more  natural,  from  the  lowly  position  she  had 
assumed,  for  Kover  to  kneel  at  her  side ;  and  he  did 
kneel  in  exactly  the  same  graceful  attitude  in  which 
she  first  beheld  him,  when  he  bent  to  display  his  jewels 
to  her  admiring  gaze ;  but  Clara  had  forgotten  all  that, 


250  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

and  she  soon  forgot  every  thing  else  but  the  words  he 
breathed  into  her  ear.  and  the  looks  that  bore  witness 
to  their  sincerity. 

The  next  morning,  as  she  was  tying  up  some  wan- 
dering vines,  that  answered  all  the  purposes  of 
jalousies,  to  the  window,  she  heard  the  tramping  of 
horses'  feet,  and  Washington  Graham,  on  his  raven 
black  horse,  accompanied  by  his  black  attendant,  with 
the  red  saddle  cloth  sweeping  so  magnificently  on 
either  side,  was  seen  passing  by.  He  lifted  his  hat, 
and  bowed  till  his  hair  almost  touched  his  horse's 
flowing  rnane,  then  rode  rapidly  by.  Clara  thought 
of  the  Black  Knight  in  Ivanhoe ;  of  Ivanhoe  himself, 
and  almost  expected  to  see  the  days  of  tournaments 
and  queens  of  love  and  beauty  revived. 

"He  is  certainly  very,  very  graceful,"  said  she, 
shading  her  eyes  to  catch  the  last  glimpse  of  his 
knight-like  figure,  yet  vexed  at  being  forced  to  bring 
him  in  lordly  contrast  to  the  contemned  Hover, 
assured  that  in  every  thing  but  outward  show,  Rover 
transcended  the  southern  nabob.  "  But  I  dare  say  ha 
is  very  proud,  and  the  maiden  that  he  will  wed  must 
also  be  proud  and  rich,  as  she  will  be  beautiful  and 
accomplished."  And  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh  at 
the  inequalities  of  fortune's  gifts,  she  resumed  her  oc- 
cupation, which  naturally  led  her  thoughts  back  to 
rural  life  and  cottage  scenes,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  she  was  indulging  most  heroic  scorn  for  every 
joy  dependent  on  wealth  or  fortune. 

Clara  sat  one  evening  alone  with  her  mother,  her 
head  bent  over  her  work.  Whenever  she  was  thua 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        251 

situated,  her  secret  weighed  heavily  on  her  heart,  and 
the  dread  of  detection  was  never  absent  from  her 
mind.  If  Mrs.  Stanley  addressed  her  suddenly,  she 
would  start  and  turn  pale — if  she  looked  upon  her 
earnestly,  she  would  tremble  and  blush,  and  some- 
times she  would  talk  at  random,  and  commit  a  thou- 
sand inconsistencies.  She  rejoiced  at  the  entrance  of 
a  neighbour,  for  it  saved  her  the  trouble  of  talking, 
and  left  her  to  the  indulgence  of  her  o\vn  thoughts. 
Mrs.  Morton,  the  lady  who  now  made  her  appearance, 
was  only  desirous  of  listeners,  for  she  came  laden  with 
news  she  was  eager  to  impart  before  she  could  be 
forestalled  in  the  office. 

"  This  is  a  very  unpleasant  affair  about  that  young 
pedler,"  said  Mrs.  Morton ;  "  have  you  heard  of  it  ?" 

Clara's  ears  tingled  at  these  words,  and  she  held  her 
breath  to  listen.  Mrs.  Stanley  expressed  her  igno- 
rance, and  Mrs.  Morton  proceeded. 

"  You  recollect  that  a  shocking  murder  and  rob- 
bery were  perpetrated  not  very  long  since  in  an  ad- 
joining town,  and  that  great  rewards  were  offered  for 
the  apprehension  of  the  murderer.  It  seems  they 
have  discovered  a  gang  of  pedlers,  who  are  going 
about  murdering  and  plundering  in  every  direction. 
Some  one  who  knew  the  gentleman  who  has  been 
lately  murdered,  says  he  can  swear  to  one  of  the 
watches  among  the  jewels  of  the  young  pedler  who 
has  been  sauntering  about  here.  He  says  he  has  seen 
it  in  the  gentleman's  possession,  and  has  no  doubt  he 
is  both  a  robber  and  a  murderer.  They  have  taken 
up  the  young  man  upon  suspicion,  and  he  is  now 


252  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

confined  in  jail.  The  probability  is  he  will  be 
hung." 

"  It  is  indeed  shocking  to  hear  of  such  crimes,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Stanley,  "when  the  actors,  too,  are  brought 
so  near  our  own  homes.  I  thought  there  was  some- 
thing very  suspicious  about  that  young  man,  and  I 
feared  he  might  be  troublesome  to  us." 

She  loooked  at  Clara  as  she  spoke,  but  she  seemed 
to  take  no  interest  in  the  conversation,  remaining  per- 
fectly still,  with  her  head  bowed,  so  that  the  lamp 
shone  brightly  on  the  ringlets  that  shaded  her  face, 
leaving  her  features  in  a  still  deeper  shade. 

While  Mrs.  Morton  went  on  with  earnestness  and 
volubility,  describing  all  she  knew  of  the  event  in 
exaggerated  colours,  Clara  rose  softly  and  left  ttu 
room.  She  stepped  cautiously  through  the  passage, 
and  down  the  steps,  opened  the  gate  with  a  noiseless 
touch,  and  then  ran  like  lightning  through  the  street. 
It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  she  could  see  her  own 
shadow  flitting  on  every  wall,  lengthening  into  spectral 
dimensions,  as  she  flew  on,  as  if  the  avenger  of  blood 
was  behind.  She  slackened  not  her  pace,  even  while 
ascending  the  hill  on  which  her  brother's  house  was 
situated,  nor  paused  till  she  reached  the  avenue  of 
trees  that  stood  in  long  stately  lines  in  front  of  the 
mansion.  For  a  moment  she  stopped,  and  looked  back 
at  the  light  that  glimmered  from  her  mother's  window, 
like  a  solitary  star,  luring  the  wanderer  home — then 
renewing  her  flight,  she  found  herself  all  at  once  in 
the  presence  of  Gertrude,  who  was  sitting  alone  in  her 
chamber,  little  dreaming  of  so  strange  an  interrup- 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        253 

tion.  She  rose  in  unspeakable  alarm  at  Clara's  en- 
trance, whose  appearance  fully  justified  the  feeling 
Her  face  was  of  ashy  paleness,  her  lips  parted  and 
quivering,  and  her  long  hair  hung  unbound  over  her 
shoulders  in  damp  clinging  masses. 

"Clara,  dear  Clara,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "tell  me 
•what  has  happened  I  You  know  nothing  of  Edward  ? 
Speak!" 

"Is  Edward  gone!  Thank  heaven!"  uttered  Clara, 
and  sinking  into  a  chair,  she  burst  into  tears.  Ger- 
trude threw  her  arms  around  her,  and  held  her  sob- 
bing head  against  her  bosom,  till,  like  a  wearied  child, 
she  gradually  ceased  her  tears.  The  hot  pressure  on 
her  brain  seemed  loosened,  but  there  was  anguish  in 
her  heart.  There  was  but  one  sound  in  her  ears — - 
"He  will  in  all  probability  be  hung!"  There  was 
but  one  image  before  her  eyes — Rover,  a  dying  victim 
to  a  false  accusation.  She  believed  him  as  guiltless 
of  crime  as  her  own  brother  was,  and  the  one  strong 
purpose  of  her  soul  was  to  liberate  him,  at  the  hazard 
of  her  own  liberty,  and  life  itself,  if  it  were  necessary. 
She  had  read  of  Helen  Mar,  who  followed  into  capti- 
vity the  Scottish  chieftain ;  of  the  devoted  Lavalette, 
who  effected  the  escape  of  her  husband  from  the  walla 
of  a  prison  by  clothing  him  in  her  own  garments,  and 
assuming  his  bondage  instead.  Impulse  and  action 
were  almost  simultaneous  with  Clara.  She  stopped 
not  to  think  of  the  censure  of  the  world,  the  reproaches 
of  her  friends.  Eover  in  prison — exposed  to  an  igno- 
minious death,  alone  filled  her  mind.  The  circum- 
stances of  Edward's  absence,  who  had  been  called 


254  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

away  upon  some  unexpected  business,  was  favour- 
able  to  her  design,  for  she  was  sure  of  the  co-opera- 
tion of  Gertrude. 

"  Dear  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
cause  of  my  grief,  but.  if  you  love  me,  do  not  refuse 
what  I  am  going  to  ask  of  you." 

"  I  do  love  you,  Clara,  for  more  than  your  own 
sake,  and  mysterious  as  you  are  to-night,  I  am  ready 
to  promise  that  whatever  you  ask  shall  be  granted, 
assured  that  it  will  be  nothing  but  what  justice  may 
require  and  affection  bestow." 

"Thanks,  a  thousand  thanks,"  cried  Clara.  "Then, 
quick,  dear  Gertrude,  lend  me  the  cloak,  hood,  and 
Mob  Cap,  which  you  wore  when  Edward  first  met 
you,  and  say  not  a  word  of  what  you  have  done  to  a 
human  being.  Oh!  Gertrude,  you  look  as  if  you 
were  going  to  deny  me  1"  and  Clara  clasped  her  hands 
supplicatingly  together,  as  if  her  life  depended  on  the 
boon. 

"  I  would  do  any  thing  but  suffer  you  to  expose 
yourself  to  danger,"  said  Gertrude,  a  bright  ray  flit- 
ting over  her  face  at  meeting  a  spirit  so  congenial  to 
her  own.  "  Any  thing  that  will  not  serve  as  a  barrier 
to  separate  you  hereafter  from  Washington  Graham." 

"Talk  not  of  "Washington  Graham,"  cried  Clara, 
impatiently;  "  I  think  not  of  him,  I  care  not  for  him — 
nor  is  there  danger  to  me.  Hasten,  I  will  do  nothing 
but  what  your  own  generous,  uncalculating  heart 
would  prompt  me  to  do." 

Gertrude  withdrew  a  moment,  and  returned  with 
her  masquerade  dress,  which  she  kept  as  a  precious 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        255 

memento  of  her  life's  most  romantic  scenes.  "My 
Clara,"  said  she  as  she  entered,  "  the  sight  of  these 
makes  me  almost  wish  I  had  again  the  task  of  winning 
the  heart  which  I  first  learned  to  prize  beneath  their 
muffling  shades.  Never,  never  shall  I  forget  the 
hour  when  Edward  breathed  into  Aunt  Bridget's  ear 
the  story  of  his  love  for  the  high  and  lofty  "Widow- 
Clifton." 

"  Tell  me,"  cried  Clara,  as  she  hastily  wrapped  her 
youthful  person  in  the  ancient  cloak,  "if  Edward  had 
been  in  danger  before  you  married  him,  what  would 
you  have  done  to  save  him  ?" 

"What  would  I  have  done!"  repeated  Gertrude, 
passionately,  "  I  would  have  died  to  save  him.  Had 
I  ten  thousand  lives,  I  would  peril  them  all  for  him 
at  this  moment,  so  entirely,  so  devotedly  do  I  love 
him." 

Clara  could  have  worshipped  her  for  this  burst  of 
enthusiasm,  sanctioning  as  it  did  her  own  purposed 
devotion,  and  with  firmer  hand  she  tied  the  mob  cap 
under  her  chin,  put  on  the  green  spectacles,  and  drew 
the  hood  over  her  head.  Notwithstanding  Clara's 
distress,  Gertrude  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  her 
antiquated  little  figure,  wondering  whether  she  had 
ever  looked  as  obselete  herself.  "Now  speed  thee, 
dear  Clara,  and  heaven  bless  thy  purpose,  whatever  it 
may  be,"  cried  she,  leading  her  down  the  steps  of  the 
piazza. 

Clara  was  obliged  to  gather  her  cloak  round  her, 
as  it  trailed  on  the  ground,  and  impeded  her  walking. 
Then  she  recollected,  that  if  so  aged  a  person  as  she 


256  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

appeared  to  be,  were  seen  running,  it  would  excite 
suspicion,  and  she  tried  to  fashion  her  movements  to 
the  character  she  had  assumed.  She  met  several  boys, 
who  terrified  her  by  hallooing  in  her  ear,  "Good- 
night, grandmother — what  will  you  take  for  your 
spectacles?"  Without  turning  her  head,  she  walked 
on  with  quicker  steps  till  she  arrived  at  the  prison. 
She  had  been  there  before  to  visit  a  poor  black  woman, 
who  was  very  sick,  and  who  had  been  accused  of  an 
attempt  to  poison  a  white  family.  She  died  in  prison, 
and  her  innocence  was  proved  too  late.  She  knew 
the  jailer,  too,  a  simple,  kind-hearted  man;  and  when 
in  faltering  accents,  which  might  well  pass  for  the 
trembling  utterance  of  age,  she  requested  admittance 
to  the  pedler,  (that  hateful  name  almost  choked  Clara, 
for  she  had  never  breathed  it  aloud  since  she  had  first 
known  Rover,)  the  good  jailer  immediately  granted 
her  admission.  Rover  was  seated  in  a  remote  corner 
of  the  gloomy  apartment,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand, 
the  dim  light -scarcely  defining  the  dark  outlines  of 
his  figure.  He  raised  his  dark  eyes  upon  her  entrance, 
and  they  flashed  with  lamp-like  brilliancy  through 
the  shades  that  surrounded  him.  He  was  in  danger 
and  disgrace,  and  Clara  felt  that  if  she  had  resolved 
to  act  a  heroic  part,  she  would  do  it  in  the  true  spirit 
of  a  heroine.  She  drew  near  him  without  speaking, 
while  he,  with  the  courtesy  which  adorns  a  prison  as 
much  as  a  drawing-room,  rose  and  offered  her  his  scat, 
wondering  what  good  old  lady  was  so  kind  as  to  visit 
him  in  this  extremity.  Clara  sunk  into  the  chair,  and 
gathering  courage  now  the  critical  moment  had  arrived 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        257 

untied  the  strings  of  her  cloak  and  cap,  and  emerged 
from  the  disguise  like  the  evening  star  from  behind  a 
gray  cloud. 

"Clara  Stanley,  by  all  that  is  lovely!"  exclaimed 
he ;  and  the  graceful  pedler  knelt  at  her  feet.  A 
bright  triumphant  smile  played  about  his  lips.  "Wel- 
come imprisonment,  danger,  and  death  itself,  if  they 
bring  with  them  consolations  like  this.  You  believe 
me  innocent,  then,"  added  he,  "  or  deeming  me  guilty, 
have  come  to  pity  and — " 

"To  save!"  interrupted  Clara,  "to  save,  believing 
you  innocent.  In  this  apparel  you  can  pass  out  un- 
discovered, and  fly  the  wretches  who  seek  your  life. 
As  for  me,  there  is  no  danger.  They  -will  release  me 
as  soon  as  they  learn  that  I  am  here." 

"  What  I  leave  you  here  alone  in  this  dismal  place, 
the  long  dark  night,  exposed  to  present  suffering  and 
future  calumny,  that  I  may  elude  dangers,  which  after 
all,  are  imaginary,  for  my  life  is  in  no  peril !  I  can 
produce  such  proofs  of  my  innocence  as  will  cover 
my  accusers  with  shame.  No!  no!  I  cannot  leave 
this  cell.  It  is  transformed  into  the  garden  of  Eden — 
since  I  have  here  learned  what  I  have  hitherto  dared 
to  doubt,  the  truth,  the  tenderness,  th$  heroism  of 
woman's  love." 

"And  shall  I  have  braved  every  thing  in  vain?" 
cried  Clara,  imploringly.  "Your  innocence  will  serve 
you  nothing  when  law  in  its  strength  is  once  aimed 
against  you.  Even  in  this  very  cell  I  saw  a  poor 
creature  breathe  her  last,  accused,  though  guiltless,  con- 
demned and  broken-hearted.  And  I  shall  be  as  safe 
16 


258  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

here  as  in  my  own  chamber.  The  jailer  knows  me — 
my  mother  has  been  kind  to  his  children,  and  ho  will 
be  kind  to  me;  I  shall  immediately  be  released. 
What!  still  unyielding?  Have  you  upbraided  me 
for  coldness  and  pride,  and  fear  of  the  world's  cen- 
sure?— but  who  now  is  cold  and  proud,  and  unwilling 
to  incur  a  debt  of  gratitude?" 

Rover  fixed  his  steadfast  gaze  on  Clara's  now  glow- 
ing countenance.  She  seemed  transformed.  Her  eyes, 
that  had  always  bowed  abashed  beneath  the  beams  of 
his,  were  riveted  intently  on  his  face — and  the  hand 
which  had  never  willingly  been  abandoned  to  his  hold, 
now  clasped  his,  in  the  energy  of  her  address. 

"  Clara,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  deep 
emotion,  "  this  is  no  time  for  deception — on  one  con- 
dition only  will  I  fly.  Should  my  fame  be  cleared, 
and  my  character  proved  upright  and  pure,  will  you 
allow  me  to  declare  my  love  before  the  world,  and 
consent  to  unite  your  fate  to  mine,  however  poor  and 
lowly  I  may  be?" 

"  I  will  consent  to  any  thing  that  obtains  a  mother's 
sanction,"  replied  Clara,  in  low  but  firm  accents;  then 
snatching  up  the  cloak,  and  throwing  it  over  his 
shoulders,  she  entreated  him  to  hasten,  as  footsteps 
were  heard  echoing  through  the  passage.  There  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  and  he  hastily  gathered  the  folds 
of  his  cloak  around  him ;  but  when  he  bent  his  head 
for  the  mob  cap  and  spectacles,  unconquerable  mirth 
struggled  with  the  tumultuous  feeling  excited  in  his 
bosom.  Even  Clara,  though  wrought  upon  by  a 
thousand  fears,  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  the 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        259 

ludicrous  effect  of  the  headdress;  then  she  wept  to 
think  she  could  have  laughed  at  such  a  moment.  She 
was  sure  that  Madame  Lavallette  did  not  laugh  when 
she  liberated  her  husband  from  the  gloomy  Concierge, 
and  he  must  have  looked  equally  grotesque  in  her 
French  mantle  and  veil.  The  cold  sound  of  the  turn- 
ing key  banished  every  thought  but  her  separation 
from  Rover.  "And  now,"  whispered  she,  "Kover, 
farewell — take  the  winga  of  the  morning,  that  all  pur- 
suit may  be  vain." 

The  gray  folds  of  the  cloak  were  for  one  moment 
wrapped  closely  around  her,  and  a  soft  deep  voice 
murmured  in  her  ear, — "farewell,  generous,  noble, 
and  devoted  Clara.  Your  holy  confidence  shall  never 
be  betrayed.  You  shall  yet  find  me  all  your  trusting 
heart  believed." 

The  door  slowly  creaked  open.  Clara  sprang  into 
the  darkest  corner  of  the  cell,  while  the  prisoner 
passed  out  to  the  jailer,  who  remained  on  the  outer 
side.  She  trembled,  for  she  distinctly  heard  the  latter 
mutter,  as  he  fumbled  about  the  keyhole,  "the  old 
woman  might  have  had  the  manners  to  speak  to  a 
body.  She  strided  by  me  as  fierce  as  a  dragoon.  I 
wonder  what  she  wanted  of  the  pedler.  I'll  go  in 
and  see  if  all  is  safe." 

He  reopened  the  door,  looked  round  the  cell,  and 
was  about  to  close  it,  when  returning  and  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  "  I  thought  I  saw  something 
white  in  this  corner.  As  sure  as  I  am  alive  it 
is  a  woman !  Bless  my  stars,  if  it  is  not  Miss  Clara 
Stanley  1" 


2 CO  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE  ;   OR,  THE 

Clara's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  by  him  and  escape 
through  the  open  door ;  her  next  was  to  remain  and 
prevent  him  from  pursuing  Rover. 

"  Why,  where  is  the  pedler  ?"  cried  he,  looking  from 
side  to  side  in  amazement  and  dismay.  "Ah,  ha  I  I 
know  what  made  the  old  woman  walk  so  fast.  But 
I'll  catch  him  yet." 

"No,  no  I"  exclaimed  Clara,  springing  forward, 
and  holding  him  by  the  arm.  "You  cannot  be  so 
cruel.  He  is  innocent,  and  you  might  have  his  life 
to  answer  for." 

"  But  it  is  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth  to  let  him 
go,"  said  the  jailer,  struggling  to  free  himself  from 
Clara's  hold,  whose  slender  fingers  seemed  gifted  with 
wondrous  strength. 

"It  is  a  cruel  office,"  cried  Clara,  "and  I  would  not 
wish  to  keep  it ;  and  if  you  do  lose  it  you  shall  have 
a  better  one  instead.  My  brother  shall  exert  his  in- 
fluence, and  you  shall  not  be  blamed.  Dear,  good 
jailer  I  do  not  be  angry,  but  remain  quiet  here.  I 
never  asked  a  favour  of  you  before,  and  you  have  said 
my  mother  has  been  kind  to  you." 

"  »So  she  has,  and  a  blessed  woman  she  is,"  replied 
he;  "and  so  have  you,  too,  as  to  that  matter;  but 
what  makes  you  take  on  so  about  it  ?  Is  that  young 
pedler  any  kin  of  yours  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Clara,  blushing;  "but  I  knew  he 
was  innocent,  and  I  pitied  him — sorry,  indeed,  should 
I  be,  if  I  could  not  be  kind  to  any  but  my  own  kin- 
dred." 

Clara  continued  her  pleadings,  and,  in  short,  as  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        261 

jailer  said,  had  "such  a  taking,  coaxing  way,  there 
was  no  getting  away  from  her,"  so  that  she  at  last 
persuaded  him  to  let  the  matter  rest,  and  suffer  it  to 
be  supposed  that  the  prisoner  had  broke  loose  from 
confinement.  He  promised,  too,  to  say  nothing  about 
her  agency,  and  to  permit  her  to  depart  unmolested. 

"But  you  must  not  go  bare-headed  and  bare-necked 
through  the  damp  air,"  said  he,  "the  folks  will  think 
you  crazy.  Stop  till  I  get  you  a  bonnet  and  shawl 
of  my  wife's.  I  can  get  them  without  disturbing  her, 
and  you  can  send  them  back  in  the  morning." 

Clara  thanked  him  for  his  consideration,  and  the 
fear  of  being  taken  up  for  a  crazy  woman  induced 
her  to  accept  the  offer.  But  when  he  brought  her  a 
wonderful-looking  shawl,  flowered  all  over  with  beasts 
and  birds,  and  a  straw  bonnet  which  looked  as  if  it 
had  survived  a  hundred  fashions,  she  feared  the  dan- 
ger still  existed,  and  that  she  would  lose  her  own 
identity  in  the  various  transformations  of  the  evening. 
The  good-natured  jailer  laughed  heartily,  and  said 
"there  was  a  good  deal  in  things  belonging  to  a  per 
son,  and  fitting  them,  after  all,  for  they  became  his 
wife  mightily." 

Clara  showered  down  her  blessings  upon  him,  and 
returned  home,  while,  like  Collins'  Passions, 

"  By  turns  she  felt  her  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  raised,  refined." 

"How  shall  I  meet  my  mother?"  thought  shav 
when  she  reached  her  own  door,  and  she  stood  on  the 
threshold  pale  and  trembling.  The  exultation  o£. 


262  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

having  performed  a  generous  action  no  longer  buoyed 
up  her  spirits  with  unnatural  excitement.  She  felt 
that  she  was  a  daughter,  acting  independently  of  a 
mother's  sanction,  and  she  shrunk  from  the  terrors 
of  her  penetrating  gaze.  A  glance  through  the  win- 
dow, from  which  the  light  streamed  in  glimmering 
rays,  relieved  her  worst  fears.  She  saw  her  mother 
quietly  seated  at  a  little  work-table,  her  Bible  opened 
before  her,  entirely  absorbed  by  its  sacred  pages. 
Clara  was  too  much  accustomed  to  pass  her  evening 
in  her  chamber,  for  her  absence  to  excite  observation, 
and  Mrs.  Stanley  usually  sat  up  till  a  late  hour,  the 
tranquillity  of  the  night  harmonizing  with  her  chas- 
tened and  religious  tone  of  character.  Clara  stole 
softly  up  stairs,  hastily  divested  herself  of  her  strange 
attire,  and,  smoothing  down  her  disordered  locks, 
endeavoured  to  compose  herself  to  rest.  But  no 
slumber  that  night  visited  the  couch  of  Clara.  Her 
nerves  were  unstrung.  The  singing  of  the  wind 
against  the  window  made  her  start  from  her  pillow. 
The  clouds  drifting  over  the  moon  seemed  the  shadows 
of  horsemen  in  the  fleetncss  of  pursuit. 

The  flight  of  the  pedler  became  a  matter  of  three 
days'  wonder  in  town,  during  which  time  active  mea- 
sures were  taken  to  discover  the  place  of  his  retreat, 
but  in  vain.  Intelligence  was  received,  just  as  they 
had  given  up  the  pursuit  as  hopeless,  that  the  real 
murderer  was  apprehended,  who,  by  a  voluntary  con- 
fession of  his  crime,  had  exonerated  the  young  pedler 
from  the  slightest  imputation  of  guilt,  who  again  made 
lus  appearance  in  the  village,  the  hero  and  lion  of  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        263 

day.  But  what  was  the  astonishment  of  the  good 
people  when  it  was  reported  that  Clara  Stanley  was 
actually  going  to  be  married  at  her  brother's,  where  a 
splendid  wedding  was  to  be  given,  and  then  they  were 
to  start  off  to  some  distant  place,  where  the  pedler 
was  to  give  up  his  profession,  and  try  to  pass  off  for  a 
gentleman !  There  was  more  reality  and  truth  in  these 
reports  than  is  generally  the  case  in  village  gossip. 
The  nuptials  of  Clara  and  young  Rover  were  in 
full  preparation,  through  the  influence  of  the  all-con- 
quering Gertrude.  Edward  and  Mrs.  Stanley  were 
induced  to  yield  their  consent.  Rover  declared  his 
resolution  of  relinquishing  his  present  course  of  life, 
and  embracing  some  honourable  profession,  in  which 
the  energies  of  his  mind  could  be  called  into  exercise, 
and  Clara,  who  was,  perhaps,  a  little  disappointed  at 
things  going  on  so  smoothly,  where  she  expected  so 
much  opposition,  expressed  her  willingness  to  go  with 
him  to  the  world's  end,  if  it  were  necessary.  She 
shrunk  from  the  idea  of  a  bridal  festival,  but  Ger- 
trude insisted  upon  arranging  every  thing  her  own  way. 

"If,"  said  she,  "you  have  shown  yourself  superior 
to  the  prejudices  of  the  world,  in  the  independence 
of  your  choice,  let  it  see  that  you  glory  in  acknow- 
ledging it." 

But  when  she  would  have  lavished  upon  her  those 
tasteful  gifts  affection  loves  to  bestow  on  such  occa- 
sions, Clara  put  them  from  her,  refusing  to  wear  any 
thing  more  adorning  than  a  plain  muslin  robe. 

"  If  I  am  to  be  the  bride  of  a  poor  man,"  said  she, 
"  the  decorations  of  wealth  are  not  for  me." 


264  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

She  thought  she  had  subdued  every  trace  of  her 
once  besetting  sin,  but  when  she  sat  in  her  own  room, 
overcome  by  those  feelings  which  press  home  on  the 
heart  of  the  most  thoughtless  on  their  bridal  day,  she 
saw  the  unexpected  apparition  of  Washington  Graham 
sweeping  by  on  his  raven  black  horse,  in  all  the  pride 
of  conscious  wealth  and  aristocracy ;  she  turned  away 
from  the  sight  in  mortification  and  dismay. 

"  Gertrude  must  have  known  of  his  coming,"  said 
she,  brushing  away  the  tears  that  trembled  on  her 
cheek,  "  and  yet  she  gave  me  no  warning.  I  cannot 
bear  that  he  should  be  present,  to  look  down  in  scorn 
on  one  equal,  if  not  superior  to  him  in  every  gift  of 
nature  and  of  God.  May  Rover  forgive  me  this  last 
lingering  moment  of  weakness,  unworthy  of  her  who 
is  blest  with  a  heart  like  his." 

The  shades  of  evening  came  on,  and  Clara,  in  her 
robe  of  unadorned  white,  with  the  bridal  rose  wreathed 
in  her  hair,  was  waiting,  with  palpitating  heart,  the 
anticipated  summons.  She  was  already  at  her  bro- 
ther's, in  an  apartment  adjoining  the  drawing-rooms, 
which  were  fast  filling  with  guests. 

"I  am  proud  of  my  sister,"  exclaimed  Gertrude, 
kissing  her  cheek,  now  pallid  from  agitation. 

"  Be  not  angry,  dear  Clara ;  though  I  have  pleaded 
the  cause  of  Rover  with  all  the  interest  so  romantio  a 
love  could  inspire,  I  cannot  but  feel  for  my  cousin. 
Washington  Graham  is  here,  returned  once  more  to 
devote  himself  to  the  task  which  I  once  dared  to  pro- 
mise him  would  prove  successful." 

"Never,  never  mention  his  name  to  me  again,"  cried 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        265 

Clara,  "  nor  seek  to  raise  in  me  emotions  which  some- 
times triumph  over  my  better  nature.  I  have  been 
the  child  of  vanity,  and  once  sacrificed  even  my  in- 
tegrity to  vain  display  and  heartless  ambition.  And 
now,  when  I  have  been  struggling  with  my  indwelling 
enemy,  in  the  strength  of'disinterested  love  alone,  and 
feel  as  if  I  had  come  off  conquering,  let  not  your  hand, 
Gertrude,  supply  my  vanquished  foe  with  new  arrn& 
to  rob  me  of  my  victory." 

The  sudden  unfolding  of  the  doors  prevented  Ger 
trude's  reply.  A  flame  of  light  poured  its  effulgence 
into  Clara's  eyes,  and  every  thing  swam  in  confusion 
before  her  gaze.  The  room  appeared  to  turn  round 
with  a  circular  motion,  and  every  figure  to  blend  to- 
gether in  strange  confusion.  She  was  only  conscious 
of  being  led  forward  into  the  centre  of  the  room  by  a 
hand  that  trembled  as  much  as  her  own,  and  of  hear- 
ing a  buzzing  sound  around  her  like  the  murmur  of 
many  voices. 

"Be  not  dismayed,  dear  Clara,"  said  the  bride- 
groom, in  a  low  voice,  in  her  ear;  "your  generous 
confidence  shall  never  be  betrayed." 

Clara,  who  had  been  gradually  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  floor,  as  they  recovered  the  sense  of  vision, 
perceived  that  every  face  was  turned  towards  the 
bridegroom,  with  a  stare  of  amazement.  It  was  more 
than  curiosity.  It  was  wonder  mixed  with  incredulity. 
Involuntarily  following  the  direction  of  their  glances, 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  him  on  whose  arm 
she  was  leaning,  and  a  wild  exclamation  escaped  her 
lips.  It  was  Washington  Graham  that  supported 


266  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ner:  "Washington  Graham,  with  all  that  high-bred 
elegance  of  dress  and  manner,  which  distinguished 
him  from  all  others.  The  waving  hair  carelessly 
shading  the  brow  of  marble  whiteness,  the  complexion, 
the  air,  were  Washington  Graham's;  but  the  dark, 
lustrous  eyes,  whose  glance  had  so  often  thrilled 
to  her  very  soul,  and  which  were  now  bent  on  her 
pale,  bewildered  countenance,  were  the  eyes  of  Rover. 

"Clara,  dear  Clara,"  cried  he,  "the  hue  of  the 
gipsy,  the  garb  of  the  pedler,  alone  are  wanting, 
but  the  faith  of  the  lover,  the  vows  of  the  bride- 
groom,  remain.  Forgive  the  deception  I  have  prac- 
tised in  concert  with  my  romantic  cousin  here, 
whose  guardian  genius  has  been  constantly  exerted 
in  my  behalf,  to  prove  whether  I  could  be  loved 
for  myself  alone." 

"Xes,"  added  Gertrude,  turning  towards  the  com- 
pany with  inimitable  grace,  thus  diverting  their 
attention  from  Clara's  unconquerable  emotion,  "suf- 
fer me  to  finish  the  explanation.  I  know  all  our 
friends  are  interested  in  hearing.  My  cousin  came 
hither,  disgusted  with  recent  proofs  of  the  treachery 
of  those  who  were  attracted  towards  him  by  the 
mere  distinctions  of  wealth  and  fortune,  and  laying 
aside  their  gaudy  trappings,  he  assumed  the  disguise 
of  a  poor  and  lowly  man." 

"But  what  upon  earth  made  him  think  of  passing 
off  for  a  pedler?"  exclaimed  an  old  lady,  who  had 
been  rubbing  her  spectacles  half  a  dozen  times,  to 
ascertain  if  she  could  see  distinctly.  Every  one 
smiled  at  the  sudden  interrogation. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        267 

"I  had  written  to  him,"  rejoined  Gertrude,  "of 
Clara's  history,  and  of  her  invincible  horror  of  the 
very  name;  and  he,  in  the  proud  confidence  of  his 
own  unborrowed  excellence,  resolved  to  encounter 
the  most  obdurate  prejudices,  that  he  might  have 
the  glory  of  conquering  them.  How  he  has  suc- 
ceeded, your  own  congratulating  hearts  can  now  bear 
witness." 

"But  I  can't  for  my  life  think,"  continued  the 
persevering  old  lady,  "why  she  didn't  find  him  out. 
I  know  nobody  would  have  deceived  me  in  that  way." 

Gertrude  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  "Washington 
Graham,  who,  gently  withdrawing  from  the  trem- 
bling hand  that  clung  to  his  arm  for  support,  smiled 
and  left  the  apartment.  Clara  followed  him  with 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  feared  he  was  about  to  vanish 
like  the  phantasmagoria  of  a  dream,  and  there  was  a 
dead  pause  in  the  whole  assembly.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  door  re-opened,  and  a  young  man  appeared, 
dressed  in  a  plain  suit  of  the  darkest  green,  his 
hair  combed  in  shading  waves  over  his  darkened 
brow,  his  complexion  tinged  with  the  same  gipsy 
dye — "Hover!"  exclaimed  Clara,  and  sprang  forward 
with  a  bound  of  irrepressible  delight.  Every  remain- 
ing doubt  vanished,  and  she  wept  in  the  fullness  of 
her  joy. 

The  old  lady  put  on  her  spectacles,  and  looking 
close  in  his  face,  declared  she  would  never  have 
known  him  from  Adam — only  there  was  a  sort  of  a 
look  out  of  the  eyes,  that  was  like  nobody  else  in 
the  world  but  himself. 


268  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

There  was  now  a  general  rush  of  congratulation 
towards  Clara,  and  she  was  almost  smothered  with 
caresses  from  those  who,  a  few  hours  before,  thought 
it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  visit  her  again.  The  bride 
of  Washington  Graham  was  a  very  different  person 
from  the  bride  of  a  pedler,  but  Clara's  heart  whis- 
pered that  Rover  and  Washington  Graham  were  the 
same. 

"Well,"  said  the  lady  of  the  spectacles,  after  the 
bridegroom  had  resumed  his  character  as  Washing- 
ton Graham,  and  the  wedding  was  concluded,  "I 
never  saw  any  thing  like  these  Stanleys,  for  the 
luck  that  follows  them;  but  I  would  not  advise  any 
of  the  young  folks  to  get  such  romantic  notions 
into  their  heads,  for  all  that.  Every  old  woman 
with  a  mob  cap  don't  turn  into  a  rich  young  widow, 
nor  every  pedler  into  a  fine  gentleman." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        269 


Sljje  $canty  Kransformei. 

"CATHERINE,"  said  young  Meredith  to  his  sister, 
ns  she  was  hastily  passing  him,  on  the  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  "stop  a  moment,  and  let  me  speak 
with  you." 

Catherine  paused  reluctlantly,  for  she  was  eager  to 
welcome  her  expected  guest. 

"I  have  invited  a  friend  here,  to-night,  to  whom  I 
wish  you  to  be  particularly  attentive." 

"Ah!"  said  Catherine;  "is  he  very  handsome,  and 
rich,  and  fashionable?  For  he  must  be  either  one  or 
all,  to  make  it  an  object  for  me  to  be  particularly 
attentive  to  him." 

"  As  to  his  beauty,  I  leave  you  to  decide — men  are 
no  judges  of  each  other's  beauty — I  know  not  the  ex- 
tent of  his  wealth — but  one  thing  I  do  know,  I  am 
under  obligations  to  him  I  never  can  repay." 

Catherine  looked  inquiringly,  and  Meredith  pro- 
ceeded : — 

"  You  remember  my  journey  over  the  mountains 
last  summer,  the  upsetting  of  the  carriage,  my  broken 
leg,  my  being  detained  so  long  in  a  log  cabin,  sick, 
and  as  some  thought,  dying.  Well,  surely  you  recol- 
lect, Catherine,  the  young  man,  my  fellow  traveller, 
who,  though  a  stranger,  lingered  there  with  me,  till  I 
was  in  a  state  of  comparative  ease,  and  watched  over 
me  like  a  guardian  angel — I  do  believe,  under 
heaven,  I  owe  my  life  to  his  tenderness  and  carer— 


270  COURTSHII'   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

•what  was  my  delight  to  meet  him,  unexpectedly,  a  few 
hours  since  in  the  streets !  I  insisted  upon  his  coming 
home  with  me,  immediately,  but  this  his  engagements 
would  not  permit.  He  promised,  however,  to  devote 
the  evening  to  me,  and  I  trust  you  will  not  forget  the 
high  claims  he  has  upon  your  gratitude  and  consider- 
ation." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will  not,"  answered  Catherine.  "  I 
will  be  as  polite  as  possible,  for  I  feel  under  infinite 
obligations  to  him,  but  as  to  entertaining  him,  I  fear  it 
will  be  out  of  my  power.  I  never  know  what  to  say 
to  these  very  good  pattern  people.  I  am  sorry  he 
happened  to  come  to-night,  as  we  expect  so*  much 
company.  It  is  really  unfortunate,"  said  she,  to  her- 
self, in  a  low  voice,  as  she  hurried  into  the  parlour,  to 
greet,  as  she  supposed,  far  more  attractive  and  distin- 
guished guests,  than  her  brother's  grave  and  quiet 
nurse.  She  knew  she  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to 
him,  but  she  imagined  he  must  be  a  very  dull  com- 
panion, for  Frank  had  been  comparatively  dull  since 
his  acquaintance  with  him,  and  always  quoted  Mr. 
Clifton,  when  he  wished  to  support  any  argument  in 
favour  of  morality,  virtue,  and  religion.  She  was 
tired  of  his  name,  for  he  was  Frank's  oracle,  and  her 
oracles  were  among  the  gay  and  fashionable  of  the 
land. 

Frank  and  Catherine  Meredith  had  neither  father 
nor  mother.  An  aunt,  the  widowed  sister  of  Mrs. 
Meredith,  was  at  the  head  of  the  household  establish- 
ment, and  the  delegated  guardian  of  Catherine's  youth. 
Frank  had  been  educated  abroad,  while  Catherine  waa 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.        271 

placed  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  boarding  schools 
in  the  country.  When  the  brother  and  sister  met, 
after  a  separation  of  many  years,  in  the  home  of  their 
youth,  they  were  as  strangers  to  each  other.  Each 
vainly  sought  to  read  in  the  other's  face  and  person, 
the  image  impressed  on  their  juvenile  memory.  The 
shy  and  somewhat  awkward  boy,  had  become  the 
self-possessed  and  elegant  young  man — the  slender, 
pale,  and  stooping  little  girl,  the  graceful,  well-pro- 
portioned, and  blooming  young  woman.  They  both 
appeared  appropriate  representatives  of  the  beings 
whose  names  they  bore,  and  well  fitted  to  adorn  the 
station  ^hey  were  destined  to  fill.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Meredith  were  both  devotees  of  wealth  and  fashion. 
They  had  dedicated  their  children  at  the  same  altar, 
but  being  called  away  by  sudden  disease,  they  could 
only  bequeath  to  them  their  wealth  and  their  example. 
Mrs.  Milner,  their  maternal  aunt,  stood  in  a  mother's 
place  to  Catherine,  and  believing,  like  her  mother, 
that  beauty,  dress,  and  manners  made  up  all  that  is 
really  desirable  and  lovely  in  woman,  she  resolved 
that  Catherine  should  be  a  model  of  perfection  in  these 
three  grand  essentials.  Nature  had  furnished  her 
with  the  first,  wealth  with  the  second,  and  education 
the  third.  Frank  was  proud  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Milner 
was  proud  of  her  niece — she  was  flattered,  caressed, 
and  imitated.  Is  it  strange  that  she  should  be  vain? 
Frank  left  his  sister  with  regret  to  take  the  mountain 
journey  mentioned  above,  and  when  he  returned 
again  after  his  hair-breadth  escape  and  protracted 
absence,  she  seemed  more  than  ever  endeared  to  his 


272  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

affections.  But  whether  from  the  consciousness  of 
having  escaped  great  danger  from  sickness,  or  the 
companionship  of  Clifton,  he  was  unaccountably 
changed,  or,  as  Catherine  declared,  unaccountably 
dull.  She  loved  her  brother,  and  felt  bound  by 
every  moral  obligation  to  his  friend,  but  he  was  the 
last  person  she  wished  to  see.  She  felt  an  internal 
conviction  she  should  dislike  him,  and  that  he  would 
dislike  her,  and  that  his  presence  would  be  a  restraint 
on  her  gaiety  and  amusements.  On  this  occasion  she 
was  dressed  with  unusual  splendour.  Mrs.  Milner, 
who  always  presided  over  the  decorations  of  her  toilet, 
with  as  much  gravity  as  a  chief  magistrate  over  the 
destinies  of  a  nation,  declared  that  nothing  was  want- 
ing to  complete  the  elegance  of  her  attire,  very  judi- 
ciously adding,  she  had  never  seen  her  look  half  so 
beautiful,  and  that  with  such  a  face,  and  such  a  dress, 
she  might  make  a  conquest  of  any  heart  she  chose. 
Catherine  entered  the  room  with  a  cheek  flushed  with 
the  consciousness  of  beauty,  and  an  eye  that  sought 
in  the  glances  of  others  the  admiration,  she  doubted 
not,  was  her  spontaneous  tribute.  She  was  soon  sur- 
rounded by  a  circle  of  flatterers,  who  so  completely 
engrossed  her  attention,  she  entirely  forgot  her  brother 
and  his  dreaded  friend,  and  her  spirits,  elated  by 
vanity,  effervesced  in  the  loud  and  frequent  laugh. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman  with  your  brother  ?"  said 
one  of  her  companions,  as  an  accidental  opening  in 
the  group  revealed  him,  standing  directly  opposite, 
with  a  young  man  in  black  by  his  side,  both  appa- 
rently waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  approach 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        273 

her.  The  unmeaning  laugh  died  on  her  lips. 
There  was  something  in  the  stranger's  aspect 
that  rebuked  her  frivolity,  and  shamed  her  into 
silence. 

"Can  that  be  Mr.  Clifton?"  thought  she.  "How 
different  from  what  I  imagined  he  would  be !" 

The  next  moment  her  brother  pressed  forward 
alone,  and  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "For  mercy's  sake,  Catherine,  leave  those 
grinning  idiots,  and  try  to  appear  like  a  sensible  girl, 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  I  never  was  so  mortified  in 
my  life,  that  Clifton  should  see  you  for  the  first  time 
to  such  disadvantage.  He  is  so  very  peculiar,  so 
different  from  every  other  person,  and  I  am  so 
desirous  that  you  should  please  him." 

The  heart  of  the  vain  and  flattered  Catherine  rose 
rebellious  at  this  speech.  Frank  had  never  spoken 
so  harshly  to  her  before.  She  determined  to  show 
her  resentment  by  disregarding  his  injunctions,  and 
when  she  received  Mr.  Clifton's  bow  of  introduction, 
her  countenance  expressed  as  plain  as  words  could 
speak  it,  "admire  me  as  I  am,  for  I  will  not  change  to 
please  you  or  any  individual  in  the  universe."  Two 
moments  after,  she  would  have  bartered  all  the  incense 
she  had  been  so  eagerly  accepting,  for  the  power  to 
recall  that  haughty  and  ungracious  look,  so  ungrate- 
fully bestowed,  yet  so  mildly  received.  "Frank  is  to 
blame  for  all,"  said  she  to  herself,  trying  to  soothe  her 
self-anger,  by  throwing  the  whole  burthen  on  him ; 
"he  always  described  him  as  a  kind  of  hum-drum, 
prosing  being.  Whoa  1  asked  him  if  lie  wore  hand- 
17 


274  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

some,  he  answered  me  evasively,  as  if  he  were  just 
not  ugly.  Men  were  no  judges  of  each  other's  beauty  ! 
As  to  wealth  and  fashion,  he  knew  nothing  about  it  I 
— as  if  any  one  could  be  so  graceful,  who  had  not 
been  educated  in  refinement  and  in  the  most  elegant 
society !  And  then,  to  crown  the  whole,  for  Frank  to 
make  me  so  angry  at  the  very  moment  when  I  ought 
to  have  been  most  amiable !  Oh !  that  I  had  been 
more  on  my  guard  !" 

Poor  Frank  was,  as  he  had  said,  deeply  mortified 
and  disappointed.  He  was  a  great  believer  in  first 
impressions.  He  loved  and  venerated  Clifton  more 
than  any  other  human  being.  He  knew  there  was 
much  in  Catherine's  character,  entirely  uncongenial  to 
his  own,  but  he  relied  on  her  beauty  and  attractive 
manners  to  disarm  his  judgment,  at  first  sight,  and 
after  that,  he  hoped  miracles  from  the  influence  he 
was  sure  Clifton  would  obtain  over  her  mind.  Never 
could  he  have  beheld  her  under  circumstances  more 
to  her  disadvantage,  and  Frank,  who  had  been  look- 
ing forward  to  the  moment  when  he  should  introduce 
his  sister  to  his  friend,  as  an  era  in  his  existence,  felt 
as  if  he  could  never  forgive  her  the  disappointment 
she  had  caused.  There  was  an  embarrassing  pause 
after  the  introduction.  Frank,  when  alone  with 
Clifton,  could  talk  with  him  for  hours,  unrestrainedly, 
but  the  fashionable  atmosphere  he  now  breathed 
chilled  the  expression  of  his  natural  feelings,  and  he 
knew  Clifton  would  be  disgusted  with  what  was  arti- 
ficial. It  was  strange  he  had  never  been  sensible 
before  of  his  sister's  entire  want  of  simplicity  01  cba- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.         275 

racter.  He  forgot  that  he  had  always  seen  her  sur- 
rounded by  beings  as  artificial  as  herself,  and  that 
now  every  look  and  action  was  seen  through  the 
medium  in  which  he  fancied  his  friend  beheld  them. 
Catherine  was  not  suffered  long  to  remain  passive — 
she  was  solicited  for  music — "  Are  you  fond  of  music, 
sir?"  said  she,  addressing  Clifton,  for  the  first  time. 

"Extremely  so,"  was  his  reply.  The  tone  of  his 
voice  was  singularly  pleasing.  There  was  no  laboured 
accent  to  give  effect  to  his  words. 

"Now,  I  shall  charm  him,"  thought  Catherine,  "in 
spite  of  all  his  gravity  and  reserve,  for  no  voice  can 
compare  with  mine  in  compass,  or  brilliancy,  and  my 
execution  is  declared  to  be  unrivalled." 

When  she  was  seated  at  the  piano,  Frank  bent  over 
her,  under  the  pretence  of  arranging  the  music,  and 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "Play  some  of  those  fine  marches, 
but  do  not  sing  any  of  those  foolish  songs,  you  are 
accustomed  to  do.  Not  to-night,  for  my  sake." 

Catherine  commenced  a  slow  and  beautiful  march, 
not  for  his  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  handsome 
and  cold-looking  stranger,  whose  admiration  she  re- 
solved to  win.  She  glanced  her  eye  carelessly  towards 
him,  as  she  concluded,  and  she  thought  his  counte- 
nance was  lighted  up  with  pleasure,  but  she  was  vexed 
to  see  that  he  was  looking  down,  and  she  feared  the 
soft  expression  she  had  thrown  into  her  face,  while 
playing,  had  been  lost  upon  him.  "  Oh,  sing  this 
song,  Miss  Meredith,"  "and  this,"  reiterated  many 
voices,  "  the  instrument  is  nothing  without  your 
singing." 


276  COURTSHIP  AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  I  cannot  sing  to-night,"  said  she ;  "  I  am  hoarse — 
I  have  a  bad  cold." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  singing  profane  songs  before 
the  young  parson  ?"  said  one,  who  passed  for  a  wit,  in 
a  low  voice  behind  her. 

" Kidiculous !"  exclaimed  Catherine;  "there  is  no 
young  parson  here." 

"Indeed!  I  thought  the  gentleman  in  black  was 
one — and  you  have  looked  so  grave  and  solemn  since 
his  entrance,  I  imagined  he  had  told  you  it  was  a  sin 
to  smile,  and  perhaps  to  sing." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke  to  one  of  those  vain,  volup- 
tuous, and  unmeaning  songs,  to  which  fashion  some- 
times sets  its  almost  omnipotent  seal.  She  had  not 
the  moral  courage  to  refuse,  and  urged  by  her  dread 
of  ridicule,  and  desire  to  show  her  independence,  she 
began  in  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  melodious 
voices  in  the  world,  strains  which  made  Frank  groan 
in  spirit,  and  wish  the  piano  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
Intoxicated  with  the  applause  she  received,  she  forgot 
her  scruples,  and  continued  to  sing  and  play — her 
aunt  nodding  and  smiling  at  her,  as  she  went  waving 
about  the  room,  courting  compliments  for  Catherine, 
that  she  might  repeat  them  to  her,  when  the  company 
had  gone.  When  Catherine  rose  from  the  instrument 
her  brother  and  Mr.  Clifton  had  disappeared.  She 
looked  in  vain  among  the  groups  of  faces  for  that 
dark  and  serious  eye,  whose  expression  was  a  mys- 
tery to  her  understanding.  With  mortified  feelings 
she  retired  to  her  chamber,  after  the  company  had 
dispersed,  and  placing  the  lights  so  as  to  shine  with 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        277 

full  resplendence  on  a  mirror,  she  took  a  long  and 
deliberate  survey  of  herself,  before  she  divested  herself 
of  her  glittering  ornaments.  She  compared  herself  in 
imagination  with  all  the  bright  forms  which  had  re- 
cently beamed  on  her  gaze,  and  she  could  not  but 
exult  in  her  own  pre-eminence.  "I  feared  I  had 
grown  ugly,"  said  she,  turning  her  beautiful  profile 
towards  the  glass,  after  gazing  on  the  full  reflection 
of  her  features,  "he  looked  so  cold  and  distant  upon 
me.  If  I  have  not  appeared  handsome  to  him,  to- 
night, I  can  never  hope  to  charm  him,  for  this  dress 
is  superb,  and  this  bandeau  of  pearl,  contrasts  so 
finely  with  my  dark  hair."  She  unbound  her  long 
shining  hair,  and  as  it  hung  in  luxuriance  around  her, 
the  thought  flashed  into  her  mind,  that  Clifton  might 
be  an  admirer  of  simplicity,  and  she  resolved  to  steal 
upon  his  senses  the  next  time  they  met,  in  all  the 
sweetness  of  undecorated  maiden  loveliness.  She 
would  wear  pure,  virgin  white,  her  hair  should  fall  in 
natural  waves  on  her  neck,  she  would  look  all  that 
was  gentle  and  modest.  It  never  entered  into  the 
heart  of  Catherine,  that  man  could  be  enslaved  by 
any  other  charm  than  beauty,  or  that  beauty,  all 
radiant  as  hers,  could  fail  to  captivate  the  being  ex- 
posed to  its  influence.  She  had  never  dreamed  that 
an  eye  less  bright  might  possess  a  holier  charm,  or  a 
form  less  fair  inspire  a  deeper  emotion.  She  had  never 
been  taught  to  think  that  there  might  be  something 
enshrined  within,  an  indwelling  beauty,  an  immortal 
principle,  capable  of  giving  grace  and  lustre  to  fea- 
tures unattractive  in  themselves.  From  a  child,  every 


276  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

instruction  she  had  received  seemed  to  have  for  the 
ultimate  object,  external  attraction.  She  was  excluded 
from  the  sun  and  air,  those  "chartered  libertines," 
lest  they  should  add  a  deeper  shade  to  the  roses  and 
lilies  of  nature — her  hands  were  kept  imprisoned  in 
gloves,  to  preserve  their  snowy  tints;  she  was  not 
permitted  to  read  or  study  by  candle-light,  lest  she 
should  dim  the  starry  brightness  of  her  eyes,  or  to 
take  long  walks,  lest  her  feet  should  become  enlarged 
by  too  much  exercise. 

"  Katy,  my  dear,  don't  run,  it  will  make  your  com- 
plexion red — Katy,  my  love,  don't  eat  too  much,  it 
will  make  your  complexion  coarse." 

A  thousand  such  admonitions  as  these  were  asso- 
ciated with  the  memory  of  her  mother,  and  never  had 
her  aunt  suffered  them  to  be  forgotten  for  want  of 
reiteration.  Mrs.  Milner  even  exceeded  her  in  the 
minuteness  of  her  instructions.  She  compelled  her  to 
wear  a  linen  mask,  during  the  long  summer  nights,  to 
enhance  the  delicacy  of  her  skin,  and  to  put  on  a  deep 
bonnet,  in  her  own  room,  whenever  she  sat  by  an  open 
window.  Thus  brought  up  from  infancy  in  the  worse 
than  Egyptian  bondage  of  fashion,  poor  Catherine  had 
no  conception  of  the  unfettered  joys  of  nature.  When 
at  school,  she  was  confined  within  the  walls  of  a  city, 
and  obliged  to  submit  to  the  iron  rules  of  an  ultra- 
fashionable  instructress.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a 
docile  pupil,  and  graduated  with  all  the  honours  of  the 
institution. 

Frank  Meredith  had  accompanied  Clifton  to  his 
own  room,  and  sat  with  him  long  after  midnight.  It 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        279 

seemed  that  Clifton  possessed  the  master-key  to  his 
soul,  for  it  was  only  when  he  was  alone  with  him, 
that  he  suffered  his  thoughts  to  flow  out  unchecked, 
and  expressed  the  desires  and  hopes  that  were  strug- 
gling into  existence  within  his  bosom. 

"Clifton,"  said  he,  "I  have  not  lived  since  you 
parted  from  me;  I  have  been  dragging  on  a  joyless 
being,  incapable  of  feeling  sympathy,  or  imparting 
delight.  Catherine  calls  me  dull  and  stupid,  and  so  I 
am,  but  she  knows  not  how  vain  and  valueless  all  my 
former  pursuits  now  appear  to  me — she  knows  not 
with  what  loathing  I  turn  from  the  false  pleasures  she 
so  eagerly  pursues." 

"  I  know  not,"  repeated  Clifton,  in  a  reproachful 
voice ;  "  are  you  convinced  yourself  that  they  are  in- 
capable of  satisfying  the  vast  desires  of  an  immortal 
mind,  are  you  conscious  of  the  fire  of  eternity  burning 
within  you,  and  can  you  sit  down  in  silence,  and  see 
your  own  and  only  sister  endeavouring  to  quench 
what  is  unquenchable,  to  destroy  what  is  indestructible, 
without  warning  or  rebuke?  Frank,  I  did  hope  bet- 
ter things  of  you." 

"  I  know  I  have  been  wrong,"  answered  Frank,  in- 
genuously, "but  I  want  your  moral  courage.  A  thou- 
sand times  have  I  been  on  the  point  of  declaring  to 
her  all  that  has  been  passing  in  my  heart ;  the  reflec- 
tions that  were  awakened  on  my  sick  bed,  the  influence 
of  your  example  and  conversation,  but  I  have  always 
been  interrupted  by  some  vanity  in  the  shape  of  dress, 
or  my  good  aunt,  or  some  fashionable  dangler — 1 
never  could  find  the  favourable  moment — and  though 


280  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

I  can  feel,  deeply,  keenly  feel,  I  cannot  find  language 
to  give  utterance  to  my  thoughts.  Catherine  would 
call  me  crazy  if  I  should  tell  her  what  is  passing 
within  me,  when  she  deems  me  merely  listless  and 
unoccupied.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  not  dared  to 
contend  with  the  unhallowed  influences  around  her, 
while  I  become  more  and  more  angry  to  see  her 
yielding  to  their  power.  Yet,  believe  me,  Clifton,  she 
is  not  so  vain  and  foolish  as  she  forced  you  to  think  her 
this  night.  Nature  intended  her  for  something  better 
than  a  mere  belle." 

"Your  sister  is  beautiful,"  said  Clifton,  "beautiful 
and  young,  and  greatly  to  be  pitied.  I  could  have 
wept  to  see  her  adorned  like  a  victim  to  be  sacrified 
on  the  altar  of  a  godless  world — I  thought  of  my  own 
sister — as  fair,  and  oh!  how  much  more  lovely,  whom 
three  months  since  I  consigned  to  the  dust,  and  I 
asked  myself,  what  hope  or  consolation  would  be  my 
portion  now,  if  the  bloom  of  her  youth  had  been 
wasted  in  scenes  like  these.  She  died  in  her  sixteenth 
spring — she  died  in  my  arms,  with  the  smile  of  rapture 
on  her  pallid  lips,  and  anticipated  glory  gleaming 
from  her  closing  eye.''  Clifton  paused  and  looked 
upward  with  a  heavenly  expression,  then  turning 
towards  Frank  with  an  earnest  and  fervent  manner, 
"Do  you  love  your  sister?" 

"Better  than  any  thing  in  this  world,  except  your- 
self." 

"And  with  this  love,  then,  glowing  in  your  heart, 
and  believing  as  you  do,  in  the  existence  of  that 
eternal  world,  of  which  she  has  scarcely  been  allowed 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        281 

to  dream,  convinced  of  her  accountability  to  God,  for 
all  the  gifts  he  has  bestowed,  an  accountability  which 
has  never  been  impressed  on  her  conscience,  what 
would  be  your  reflections  if  you  saw  her  struck  down 
by  the  angel  of  death,  even  as  my  sweet  and  bloom- 
ing Jane,  conscious  that  you  had  never  even  whis- 
pered in  her  ear — 'This  is  riot  all,  my  sister — this 
bright,  but  shadowy  scene — eternity's  beyond !'  " — 

"Clifton,"  said  Frank,  impetuously,  "you  have  saved 
my  life — I  know  I  should  have  died  on  the  moun- 
tains, when  that  burning  fever  was  drying  up  my 
veins,  if  you  had  not  watched  over  me  with  more 
than  woman's  tenderness.  But  this  is  not  half  the 
debt.  You  roused  my  mind  from  its  long  and  deadly 
lethargy,  and  it  has  ever  since  been  heaving  and 
struggling  for  that  glorious  liberty  of  the  children  of 
God,  you  taught  me  to  pant  after.  But  I  am  not  yet 
free — I  am  too  weak  to  help  others  break  their  bonds. 
Do  this  for  me,  and  I  will  bless  you.  Come  and  re- 
main with  us,  and  be  our  Mentor  and  our  guide. 
Catherine  is  scarcely  more  a  devotee  of  the  world  than 
I  was,  when  first  you  knew  me.  Be  not  afraid  of 
coming  in  contact  witli  vice  and  folly — we  must  some- 
times handle  the  dross  of  earth,  to  extract  its  gold. 
You  will  not  be  contaminated,  and  we  shall  be  puri- 
fied." 

"It  pains  me,  my  friend,"  replied  Clifton,  "that  you 
should  ascribe  a  power  to  me  that  belongs  to  God 
alone.  If  I  have  been  instrumental  in  his  hands  of 
exciting  in  you  a  thirst  for  living  waters,  give  thanks 
to  Him  from  whom  those  living  waters  flow — I  am 


282  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

but  a  fellow-pilgrim  with  you,  through  the  wilderness 
of  life,  and  having,  like  you,  drank  deep  of  the  feverish 
streams  of  pleasure,  and  found  them  unsatisfying,  I 
have  been  directed  to  a  pure  and  purifying  fountain,, 
and  I  could  but  ask  you  to  taste  and  live." 

Clifton  could  not  be  persuaded  to  make  the  house 
of  his  friend  his  home,  but  he  /consented  to  remain 
near  him,  for  a  time,  and  to  visit  him,  as  often  as  he 
could  be  assured  of  finding  him  at  liberty  to  act  as  a 
rational  being.  He  promised,  too,  to  converse  with 
Catherine,  as  a  rational  and  immortal  being,  and  to 
persevere  in  the  task,  though  he  might  meet  with 
displeasure  and  disgust  from  her.  It  was  a  novel 
task,  indeed,  to  be  imposed  on  a  young  and  handsome 
man,  to  tell  a  flattered  beauty  of  her  faults  instead  of 
offering  incense  to  her  vanity,  but  the  rays  of  Cathe- 
rine's beauty  fell  as  coldly  on  Clifton's  eye,  as  the 
sunbeams  reflected  from  a  sheet  of  polar  ice — as  he 
had  told  her  brother,  he  looked  upon  her  with  the 
sincerest  pity  for  her  own  sake,  and  with  sentiments 
more  tender  for  his,  for  his  soul  clave  unto  Frank's, 
even  as  Jonathan's  unto  David,  "  with  a  love  passing 
the  love  of  woman."  It  was  a  love  that  stretched  far 
beyond  the  limits  of  time,  and  followed  its  object 
through  the  un wasting  ages  of  eternity. 

Catherine  adopted  the  plan  of  elegant  simplicity 
she  had  previously  arranged,  and  appeared  without 
any  ornament  but  a  single  white  rose,  wreathed  in 
her  dark  locks.  But  with  all  her  practised  graces, 
and  determination  to  be  admired,  she  found  it  impos- 
sible to  preserve  with  Clifton,  those  artificial  manners 


JOYS  AXD   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        283 

for  which  she  had  been  so  much  applauded.  His 
graceful  gravity  checked  the  affected  laugh,  which  so 
often  rung  without  merriment.  Whenever  she  met 
his  mild,  serious,  yet  deeply  penetrating  eye,  she  for- 
got to  add  a  languishing  softness,  or  sparkling  bril- 
liancy to  her  own.  Absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
his  singular  and  to  her  mysterious  character,  she,  for 
almost  the  first  time  in  her  life,  forgot  herself,  and 
looked  and  moved  as  nature  prompted.  As  she  list- 
ened to  his  conversation,  so  superior  in  intellect  to 
what  she  was  accustomed  to  hear,  she  felt  ashamed 
that,  instead  of  cultivating  her  powers  of  reason  and 
expression,  she  had  aimed  at  nothing  higher  than 
brilliant  nonsense. 

One  evening  she  walked  in  the  garden  with  Clifton 
and  her  brother,  for  it  was  sunset,  and  Mrs.  Milner 
thought  at  that  hour  she  might  venture  in  the  air 
with  impunity.  Clifton  was  an  enthusiast,  when  speak- 
ing of  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  he  never  spoke  of  a 
tree  or  flower,  without  leading  the  thoughts  to  the 
divine  mysteries  of  creation,  and  endeavouring  to 
raise  them  to  their  great  and  glorious  Author.  Cathe- 
rine was  a  skilful  botanist,  but  here  was  a  lore  in 
which  she  was  altogether  unlearned.  When  she  ac- 
companied them  in  their  Avalk,  she  thought  to  herself, 
"Now  shall  I  have  an  opportunity  of  shining,"  but 
when  Clifton  began  to  speak  of  the  beauties  to  which 
she  directed  his  gaze,  he  soared  so  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  her  capacities,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  left 
grovelling  behind.  Frank  gathered  a  beautiful  rose, 
and  gave  his  sister  as  they  passed  the  bush  on  which 


284  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

it  was  blossoming.  She  took  it  with  a  smile,  and  was 
about  to  place  it  in  her  bosom — "Oh,  my  God!"  she 
passionately  exclaimed,  suddenly  dropping  the  flower. 
A  thorn  had  pierced  her  finger,  and  the  blood  stained 
its  snowy  surface. 

Clifton  started  and  a  flush  passed  over  his  face. 
He  turned  towards  her,  but  not  to  sympathize  in  so 
trivial  an  accident:  "Miss  Meredith,"  said  he,  "forgive 
me,  if  I  speak  with  a  plainness  you  are  not  wont  to 
hear.  It  is  inexpressibly  painful  to  me,  to  hear  the 
most  holy  and  august  name  in  the  universe  uttered 
irreverently.  Even  in  prayer,  I  cannot  breathe  it, 
without  melting  with  tenderness  or  trembling  with 
awe." 

Catherine  turned  pale  at  the  solemnity  of  the  re- 
buke, then  reddened  with  anger,  shame  and  astonish- 
ment, till,  at  length,  unable  to  control  her  excited 
feelings,  tears  she  could  not  hide  gushed  from  her 
eyes. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  wound,"  said  he;  "forgive  me,  1 
ask  once  again,  if  I  have  spoken  too  harshly.  But 
believe  me,  I  address  you  as  a  friend,  less  flattering, 
perhaps,  than  many  wno  bear  that  name,  but  more 
sincere.  Angels  rejoice  when  the  lips  of  beauty  unite 
with  them  in  strains  of  adoration  and  praise  of  the 
source  of  uncreated  glory,  but  angels  weep,  if  beatified 
beings  can  weep,  when  youth  and  beauty  live  regard- 
less of  the  high,  the  undeniable  claims  of  their  Maker 
on  their  soul." 

There  was  an  earnestness,  a  tenderness  in  his  voice 
and  manner,  that  disarmed  her  resentment,  but  as  her 


JOYS  AXD   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        285 

anger  died  away,  her  tears  flowed  more  freely.  "  You 
are  very,  very  solemn,  Mr.  Clifton,"  said  she ;  "I  spoke 
thoughtlessly ;  I  know,  I  am  too  apt  to  do  so ;  but  I 
little  dreamed  I  was  giving  you  pain." 

Frank  felt  for  the  distress  of  his  sister,  though  he 
was  delighted  at  her  unexpected  sensibility.  He  drew 
her  arm  through  his,  and  leading  her  towards  the 
Bummer-house,  entreated  Clifton  to  take  advantage  of 
the  present  calm  and  uninterrupted  moment  and  con- 
verse with  them  both  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  bro- 
ther or  a  sister. 

"A  sister  1"  repeated  Clifton;  the  words  touched  the 
chords  of  memory;  "Miss  Meredith,  shall  I  speak  to 
you  of  a  sister,  who  was  unutterably  dear  to  my  affec- 
tions ?  who,  one  year  since,  was  blooming  in  health  as 
you  now  are,  but  who  now  sleeps  in  death  ?  You 
say  I  am  very  solemn,  and  I  now  choose  a  solemn  theme, 
but  to  me  it  is  a  delightful  one,  a  glorious  one." 

Catherine  shuddered.  Death  was  associated  in  her 
mind  with  images  of  darkness  and  horror,  for  she 
thought  only  of  the  body  returning  to  dust,  consigned 
to  corruption  and  the  worm,  not  of  the  soul  ascend- 
ing to  the  God  who  gave  it.  It  was  an  awful  subject 
to  her,  yet  she  felt  a  curiosity,  restrained  by  fear,  to 
know  how  his  young  sister  had  met  the  conqueror's 
coming. 

"Glorious!"  exclaimed  she — "oh!  it  must  be  ter- 
rible!" 

"  Death  had  no  terrors  for  her,"  replied  he,  "  though 
he  carne  to  her  in  the  spring-time  of  her  youth.  She 
welcomed  him  as  a  messenger  from  God,  whom  she 


286  COURTSHIP  AXD  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

loved  as  a  reconciled  Father,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
cold  bosom  as  gently  as  if  she  were  reclining  on  a 
pillow  of  down.  Do  you  ask  me  what  it  was  that  made 
her  dying  hour  a  scene  of  such  holy  tranquillity  ?  It 
was  faith  in  Him  who  had  died  to  redeem  her,  who 
had  himself  passed  through  the  portals  of  the  tomb, 
and  left  behind  him  a  long  track  of  glory.  'I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  livetli,'  were  the  last  words  she 
uttered,  and  had  you  seen  the  seraphic  expression  of 
her  eye  and  the  smile  that  lingered  on  her  lips  even 
after  the  spirit  had  departed,  you  would  have  felt 
with  me  the  reality,  the  beauty,  the  grandeur  of  re- 
ligion." 

Catherine  listened  and  wondered.  The  rays  of  the 
crimsoned  west  were  reflected  on  the  face  of  Clifton, 
through  the  parting  boughs  that  shaded  the  window 
of  the  summer-house.  Its  usually  pale  hue  was 
lighted  up  with  a  fervent  glow,  and  his  eyes  beamed  as 
she  thought  with  more  than  earthly  fire.  And  yet  he 
was  speaking  of  death,  a  subject,  tlje  mere  mention  of 
which  never  failed  to  blanch  the  roses  of  her  cheek 
and  freeze  her  blood  with  horror. 

"Religion,"  thought  she,  "  what  is  religion?  Does  it 
consist  in  such  a  life  as  mine?  In  dressing,  shining, 
practising  to  be  admired,  in  living  but  for  flattery  and 
display,  in  a  life  of  idleness  and  dissipation  ?" 

Thus  Catherine's  awakened  conscience  interrogated 
her  when  she  retired  to  the  solitude  of  her  chamber, 
and  a  still,  small  voice  within  gave  back  the  faithful 
negative.  Lost  in  her  new  reflections,  she  did  not 
notice  the  entrance  of  a  servant  who  came  loaded  with 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        287 

band-boxes,  sent  by  the  milliner  and  mantua-maker, 
containing  articles  for  which  she  had  been  impatiently 
waiting.  Mrs.  Milner,  who  always  followed  these  ar- 
rivals, and  who  never  moved  without  a  bustle,  roused 
her  from  her  reverie. 

"Why,  Catherine,  my  love,"  said  she,  "what  is  the 
matter,  that  you  seem  so  indifferent  about  these 
beautiful  dresses?  You  have  been  crying— spoiling 
your  eyes  and  complexion — I  know  it  by  the  red 
circle  round  them — what  can  be  the  matter?  You 
have  been  moping  these  two  or  three  days — ever  since 
that  Clifton  has  been  here,  and  a  most  disagreeable 
young  man  he  is,  I  am  sure." 

"Disagreeable,  aunt,"  repeated  Catherine,  with  some 
warmth. 

"Yes,  exceedingly  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Milner;  "he  has 
not  said  a  civil  thing  to  you  yet.  It  was  kind  in  him 
to  take  care  of  Frank,  when  lie  was  sick,  and  that 
is  the  only  reason  I  tolerate  him.  I  can't  bear 
people  who  look  as  if  they  thought  themselves  so 
much  better  than  other  folks.  He  does  not  take  any 
more  notice  of  you  than  if  you  were  his  grandmother. 
I  hope  it  is  not  that  which  makes  you  low  spirited." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Catherine,  her  vanity,  which  had 
slumbered  for  a  little  while,  piqued  at  the  remark; 
"  I  do  not  care  for  his  attention,  but  I  am  sure  he  is 
polite  and  kind.  He  has  been  speaking  to  me  of  his 
sister,  a  beautiful  young  girl,  who  died  a  short  time 
since,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  affected  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  described  her  death." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  use  of  his  talking  to  you  about 


233  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

these  things,"  answered  Mrs.  Milner  with  some  asper- 
ity ;  "  it  only  serves  to  damp  one's  spirits,  and  does  no 
good  to  any  one — I  always  avoid  them  myself." 

"  But,  aunt,"  said  Catherine,  "shall  we  not  be  obliged 
to  think  of  them  sometimes?  If  we  must  die  our- 
selves—" 

"  Nonsense,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Milner.  "  I  will  not 
hear  you  talk  in  that  gloomy  strain.  We  ought  to 
enjoy  ourselves  as  much  as  possible  in  this  world,  and 
not  trouble  ourselves  about  leaving  it  till  the  time 
comes.  Look  at  this  superb  dress.  There  is  not  an- 
other pattern  in  town — you  must  wear  it  to-morrow 
evening  at  Mrs.  R.'s,  for  there  is  to  be  a  splendid  party 
there." 

She  unfolded  the  robe,  richly  ornamented  with  lace 
and  novel  decorations,  before  Catherine,  whose  eyes 
began  to  sparkle,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  in  the  con- 
templation of  her  finery,  long  and  early  acquired 
habits  of  ^vanity  and  love  of  admiration  triumphing 
over  the  better  feelings  that  were  beginning  to  strug- 
gle in  her  heart.  That  night  her  thoughts  were  strange 
and  confused.  She  tried  in  vain  to  sleep — at  one 
moment  the  deep-toned  voice  of  Clifton  seemed  ring- 
ing in  her  ears,  rebuking  her  profane  levity ;  at  another 
the  shrouded  form  of  his  once  blooming  sister,  rose 
pale  and  cold  before  her  shuddering  gaze;  then  the 
glittering  image  of  herself  in  her  new  attire,  the 
centre  of  an  admiring  crowd,  came  dazzlingly  over  the 
shadows  of  the  tomb.  Over  all  there  brooded  one 
overwhelming  idea,  which  once  admitted,  she  could 
not  shut  out,  that  though  she  had  lived  an  atheist's 


JOYS   ANT)   SORROWS  OF   AMERICAN    LIFE.        289 

life,  tlicro  was  indeed  a  God  from  whose  presence  and 
whose  power  she  could  not  flee.  The  breathing  silence 
of  the  night,  its  sweeping  shadows,  through  which  the 
stars  were  gleaming  like  the  myriad  eyes  of  omni- 
science, the  lonely  voice  of  the  wind  sighing  through 
the  trees,  deepened  the  awe  that  oppressed  her  soul. 
Mrs.  Milner  rebuked  her  in  the  morning  for  her  pale 
complexion,  and  insisted  upon  treating  her  as  an  in- 
valid, and  confining  her  to  her  room.  By  this  means 
she  hoped  to  keep  her  frorn  the  society  of  Clifton, 
whose  influence  she  dreaded  more  than  she  was  will- 
ing to  acknowledge.  She  thought  her,  however,  suf- 
ficiently recovered  in  the  evening,  to  attend  the  party 
at  Mrs.  R.'s,  for  which  splendid  preparations  had  been 
long  making.  Catherine  did  not  devote  as  much  time 
as  she  was  wont  to  do,  in  decorating  her  person,  but 
her  aunt  supplied  the  deficiency,  by  over  zeal  on  her 
part.  She  twisted  and  untwisted  her  hair,  curled  and 
uncurled  it,  waved  and  braided  it,  till  Catherine  de- 
clared her  head  ached  and  she  would  rather  go  as  she 
was  than  be  tortured  any  longer.  She  was  beginning 
to  think  there  was  an  interior  to  her  head,  which  had 
been  left  to  shameful  neglect  and  poverty,  while  costly 
gems,  and  time,  than  gems  more  precious,  had  been 
constantly  lavished  on  the  exterior.  Catherine  received 
that  evening  a  lesson  she  little  expected,  and  it  was  not 
the  less  salutary.  After  playing  and  singing  for  the 
gratification  of  the  company,  and  being  complimented 
and  admired  as  usual,  she  began  to  be  weary.  She  felt 
a  void  unfelt  before.  She  looked  on  the  young  men 
who  surrounded  her,  and  thought  how  they  sunk  into 
18 


290  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   TRK 

insignificance,  even  in  personal  comparison  with  Clif- 
ton, to  say  nothing  of  his  loIVy  intellect,  his  pure  and 
spiritual  conversation.  Every  thing  that  was  said  to 
her  sounded  silly  and  vapid.  She  wanted  to  be  alone, 
and  taking  advantage  of  a  moment,  when  a  new  singer 
was  engaging  general  attention,  she  retired  into  the 
piazza,  where  the  beauty  of  the  night  had  already  at- 
tracted many  of  the  guests.  She  stood  a  moment  in 
the  shade  without  being  perceived,  quite  near  a  young 
gentleman  and  lady  who  were  engaged  in  earnest  con- 
versation. She  had  no  intention  of  acting  the  part  of 
a  listener,  but  hearing  her  own  name,  she  involuntarily 
held  her  breath  that  she  might  not  lose  the  accom- 
panying words.  The  gentleman  was  one  of  her  pro- 
fessed admirers,  the  young  lady  one  of  her  warmest 
professing  friends. 

"You  have  been  saying  all  these  fine  things  before 
to  Catherine  Meredith,"  said  the  young  lady;  "you 
are  the  professed  worshipper  of  her  beauty.  Why 
attempt  to  lay  offerings  at  a  meaner  shrine?" 

"Catherine  Meredith,"  repeated  he,  emphatically; 
"why  it  is  the  fashion  to  admire  Jier,  and  her  vanity 
is  so  excessive  and  so  exacting,  it  is  impossible  for  a 
young  man  to  be  in  her  presence,  without  being 
forced  to  pay  tribute  to  it.  And  then  her  vain,  foolish 
aunt,  taxing  every  one's  admiration  for  Catherine,  and 
compelling  them  to  declare  her  a  super-angelic  being!" 

"But  surely  you  think  her  handsome?"  asked  the 
young  girl,  in  a  delighted  voice.  "I  never  thought  her 
so  myself,  but  feared  to  confess  it,  lest  I  should  be 
accused  of  envy." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        291 

"Yes,  rather  handsome,"  was  the  reply,  "but  nothing 
to  excite  interest.  She  reminds  me  of  Moore's  des° 
cription  of  that  beauty  unchangeably  bright  which 
annihilates  love,  with  its  own  dazzling  excess.— Oh! 
no.— I  flatter  her,  it  is  true,  for  it  amuses  me,  but 
neither  she,  nor  fifty  thousand  such  as  she,  could  ever 
touch  my  heart." 

Here  something  was  added  in  a  lower  voice,  some- 
thing probably  meant  for  her  exclusive  ear,  and  they 
passed  on  into  the  moonlight,  leaving  Catherine  first 
petrified  "with  astonishment,  and  then  glowing  with 
indignation. 

_  "Are  these,"  thought  she,  -the  friends  in  whose 
sincerity  I  have  confided,  to  whose  professions  I  have 
lent  a  charmed  and  willing  ear?" 
^  Bitter  was  the  pang  to  find  herself  an  object  of 
ridicule  and  contempt,  where  she  believed  she  was 
almost  worshipped.     Unused  to  self-control,  and  too 
proud  to  suffer  her  feelings  to  be  visible  to  those  who 
would  triumph  in  her  mortification,  she  complained 
of  a  violent  headache  to  her  aunt,  and  induced  her  to 
return  home.     The  same  young  man  pressed  forward 
to  assist   her   into   the   carriage,   with   that   devoted 
admiring  air  he  always  assumed,  but  Catherine,  giv- 
ing  him   an  inexplicable   look,   coldly  declined  the 
offered  civility,  to  the  great  astonishment  and  dis- 
pleasure of  her  aunt. 

"You  are  very  strange  to-night,   Catherine,"  said 

Mrs.   Milner.      "I   thought   Mr.   was   a   great 

favourite  of  yours." 


292  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"I  hate  him,  I  detest  him,"  cried  she.  "I  never  wish 
to  hear  his  name  mentioned  in  my  presence." 

Her  long-repressed  feelings  here  burst  forth,  and 
throwing  herself  back  in  the  carriage,  she  wept  the 
bitterest  tears  she  had  ever  shed  in  her  life.  Wounded 
pride,  mortified  vanity,  envy,  jealousy,  and  anger, 
raged  like  a  whirlwind  in  her  bosom.  It  was  long 
before  she  would  explain  to  her  aunt  the  cause  of  her 
mysterious  agitation,  and  when  she  did  so,  the  vio- 
lence of  Mrs.  Milner's  indignation  swept  away  Cathe- 
rine's in  its  stronger  current.  She  exhausted  herself 
in  giving  vent  to  her  anger,  and  retired  to  her  room 
in  a  state  bordering  on  hysterics.  As  Catherine 
crossed  the  gallery  that  led  to  her  chamber,  the  ser- 
vant who  lighted  her,  begged  her  to  stop  and  speak 
to  a  little  girl,  who  seemed  in  great  distress  about  her 
mother,  and  had  been  there  once  before,  during  their 
absence.  She  had  just  made  an  appeal  in  her  behalf 
to  Mrs.  Milner,  but  in  vain — she  was  too  much  en- 
grossed with  her  own  imagined  wrongs.  Catherine 
was  precisely  in  that  state  of  mind  when  she  was  re- 
joiced to  be  carried  away  from  herself.  She  turned 
to  the  child,  and  bade  her  make  known  her  wants. 
The  little  girl  came  forward,  trembling  and  weeping, 
and  in  a  few  simple  words  declared  her  errand.  Her 
mother  was  poor,  very  poor,  who  lived  in  a  little 
alley  not  far  distant.  She  supported  herself  by  her 
daily  labour,  and  two  or  throe  little  children,  whom 
uhe  left  at  home  during  the  day,  and  to  whom  she 
returned  at  night,  with  the  wages  she  had  earned. 
This  night  she  had  returned  very  ill  and  laid  down 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LTFE.        293 

in  her  bed,  without  speaking.  The  eldest  of  the  little 
girls,  whose  name  was  Nelly,  ran  over  to  beg  one  of 
the  servants  of  Mrs.  Milner  to  come  to  her  mother's 
assistance,  for  she  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  die. 
"There  was  a  good  gentleman  here,"  said  Nelly,  "who 
told  me  he  would  send  her  a  doctor,  but  I  am  afraid 
to  bo  left  with  mother,  and  brother  and  sister  are 
litlleer  than  I." 

Catherine  thought  there  was  but  one  good  gentle- 
man in  the  world,  and  that  was  Clifton.  The  tears 
of  the  little  girl  affected  her  surprisingly.  "  It  is  but 
a  few  steps,"  said  she,  "and  the  moon  is  shining 
brightly,  I  will  go  with  you  myself,  and  see  what  can 
be  done  for  your  mother." 

Then  telling  Nelly  to  lead  the  way,  she  bade  the 
astonished  waiting-maid  follow,  and  set  out,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  for  the  abode  of  poverty,  sick- 
ness, and  perhaps  of  death.  With  nothing  but  a  light 
scarf  thrown  over  her  splendid  dress,  she  glided 
through  the  alternate  shadows  and  moonbeams,  by 
the  side  of  the  miserable  child,  like  one  of  those 
bright  genii,  described  in  oriental  tales.  She  was 
hardly  conscious  of  the  impulse  that  led  her  on.  She 
was  greatly  excited,  and  having  read  one  lesson  of 
the  world's  vanity,  she  felt  a  feverish  desire  to  peruse 
another,  in  a  far  different  scene.  It  was  not  till  she 
reached  the  door  of  the  low,  wretched  dwelling,  she 
was  sensible  of  the  extraordinary  situation  in  which 
she  had  placed  herself.  Nelly  softly  lifted  the  latch, 
and  held  the  door  for  Catherine  to  pass  in,  with  that 
courtesy  which  nature  sometimes  teaches  the  humblest 


294  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

of  its  children.  Catherine  paused  upon  the  threshold, 
for  she  felt  that  she  was  treading  on  holy  ground. 
A  voice,  too,  reached  her  ear,  whose  tones  breathed 
of  the  tranquillity  of  heaven.  A  single  lamp,  placed 
on  a  low  table  near  the  bed,  dimly  lighted  up  the 
apartment,  and  revealed  to  the  appalled  view  of 
Catherine,  the  livid  countenance  of  the  apparently 
dying  woman.  She  lay  extended  on  a  straw  pallet, 
rigid  and  motionless,  with  no  symptoms  of  life  about 
her,  but  an  occasional  wild  rolling  of  the  eyes,  which 
were  of  a  livid  black,  and  contrasted  fearfully  with 
her  ashy  complexion.  Two  little,  pale,  terrified-looking 
children  crouched  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  kneeling 
by  its  side,  was  a  figure  which  Catherine  thought  she 
would  have  recognised  in  the  most  distant  isle  of 
the  ocean.  It  was  Clifton,  who,  like  his  divine 
Master,  made  it  his  business  to  go  about,  binding  up 
the  wounds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  soothing  the  evils 
of  suffering  humanity.  lie  had  sent  a  physician, 
who  had  but  just  left  the  cabin,  but  he  came  him- 
self, to  see  if  he  could  not  minister  comfort  and  give 
counsel  to  the  soul  of  the  invalid.  He  found  her  in 
that  condition,  when  it  is  impossible  for  man  to  tell 
what  is  passing  between  the  spirit  and  tho  mighty 
God  into  whose  presence  it  is  about  to  appear,  and 
kneeling  down,  he  commended  her  to  Him  in  whose 
sight  the  dweller  of  the  mud- walled  cottage  and  the 
inmate  of  the  palace  are  equal. 

Catherine  held  her  breath,  as  that  solemn,  fervent, 
thrilling  prayer  rose  like  incense  above  the  couch  of 
death.  He  was  not  aware  of  her  presence.  He  re- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        295 

membered  only  the  presence  of  the  omnipotent 
Jehovah,  and  the  poor  sufferer,  for  whom  he  was 
interceding,  and  by  this  simple,  yet  sublime  act  of 
faith  and  devotion  he  transformed  that  miserable 
apartment  into  a  scene  of  grandeur  and  of  glory. 
When  Clifton  rose  from  his  knees,  Nelly,  who  had 
stood  in  mute  awe  by  the  side  of  Catherine,  approached 
her  mother,  and  took  hold  of  the  hand,  which  was  no 
longer  conscious  of  her  touch.  Catherine  followed, 
trembling  and  bewildered,  and  encountered  the  won- 
dering gaze  of  Clifton,  who  turned  round  at  the  foot- 
steps of  the  child.  The  lamp  flashed  up  at  this 
moment,  and  reflected  its  rays  full  on  Catherine's  glit- 
tering figure,  so  strangely  contrasting  with  the  poverty 
and  gloom  of  the  place.  The  dying  woman  seemed 
to  be  roused  by  the  gleam,  and  opening  her  eyes  once 
more,  fixed  them  upon  Catherine  with  such  a  wild, 
unearthly  glare,  she  could  scarcely  repress  the  scream 
of  terror  that  rose  to  her  lips. 

Clifton  drew  near  Catherine.  "You  had  better 
return,"  said  he;  "you  cannot  relieve  her,  for  she  is 
beyond  all  human  aid.  Take  these  poor  orphans  with 
you,  and  give  them  shelter  for  the  night.  Let  your 
attendant  remain  here.  I  will  see  you  safely  home,  and 
then  return,  and  keep  watch  with  her  while  life  lasts." 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  to  assist  you  ?"  asked  Catherine, 
ashamed  of  her  helplessness  and  her  fears. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,"  replied  he,  "  but  I 
rejoice  that  you  have  been  led  here  for  your  own  sake. 
This  scene  needs  no  comments.  It  is  awful,  but 
chastening." 


296  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

Here  a  deep  groan  from  the  bed  made  Catherine 
start  and  shudder,  and  Clifton  pitying  her  agitation, 
took  her  hand  and  drew  her  gently  away.  The 
children  sobbed  and  clung  to  the  bedside  of  their 
mother,  refusing  to  leave  her,  and  Clifton  thinking  it 
kinder  to  indulge  their  feelings  than  to  force  them, 
suffered  them  to  remain  behind.  When  they  came 
into  the  open  air,  and  saw  the  pure  and  blessed  moon 
shining  above,  Catherine  felt  as  if  she  were  emerging 
into  more  celestial  regions  than  she  had  ever  inhabited 
before.  A  sixth  sense  seemed  to  have  been  imparted 
to  her,  whereby  the  glory  of  God  was  revealed  to  her 
soul.  The  heavens  no  longer  appeared  to  her  a  mere 
expanse  of  starry  blue,  made  to  gratify  man's  nightly 
vision,  or  to  exercise  the  genius  of  the  astronomer, 
but  a  tablet  on  which  was  impressed  in  burning  and 
eternal  characters,  the  wisdom,  the  power,  the  infinity 
of  the  creating  uncreated  hand.  The  shadows  of 
death  were  left  rolling  behind,  forming  a  dark  back- 
ground for  these  living  splendours.  The  conscious- 
ness that  she  had  something  existing  within  her, 
destined  to  live  when  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  tho 
heavens  themselves  were  no  more,  swelled  in  her 
bosom,  and  oppressed  while  it  exalted  her.  When 
Clifton  parted  with  her  qt  her  own  door,  he  simply 
said,  "May  God  bless  you,  Miss  Meredith."  The 
words  were  few,  but  every  thing  that  was  kind  and 
feeling  was  expressed  in  the  deep  and  heartfelt  sin- 
cerity of  the  tones.  Catherine  could  not  sleep, 
through  the  long  watches  of  the  night.  How  much 
had  she  learned  during  the  past  hours  of  the  treachery, 


JOYS   AXD  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        297 

the  falsehood,  the  vanity  of  the  world !  She  reflected 
with  shame  and  remorse  on  the  stormy  passions  that 
had  been  excited  in  her  breast.  They  had  all  subsided 
in  the  chill,  still  atmosphere  of  death.  The  beauty 
which  she  had  lived  to  adorn  and  display  seemed 
now  worthless  in  her  eyes,  doomed  as  it  was  to  turn 
to  dust  and  ashes,  while  the  deathless  principle  which 
had  been  slumbering  under  the  influence  of  such  fatal 
opiates,  now  awakened  and  rose  upon  the  ruins  of 
demolished  vanity  and  pride,  with  supernatural 
energy. 

The  woman  died  a  few  hours  after  Catherine  left 
her.  Her  first  thought  when  she  heard  the  intelli- 
gence was  for  the  destitute  orphans.  She  knew  they 
had  a  friend  in  Clifton,  but  she  wanted  to  aid  him  in 
this  labour  of  love.  Her  only  difficulty  was  in  break- 
ing the  matter  to  her  aunt,  and  in  gaining  her  consent 
and  co-operation.  Frank  unfortunately  was  absent, 
who  would  have  assisted  her  in  this  extremity,  and 
though  with  some  misgivings,  she  entered  upon  her 
explanation.  Mrs.  Milner  was  aghast  with  horror, 
when  she  learned  that  Catherine  herself  had  breathed 
infected  air,  had  stood  by  the  bed  of  death,  and  per- 
haps exposed  herself  and  the  family  to  some  loath- 
some disease.  She  called  for  camphor,  lavender,  and 
cologne,  and  insisted  upon  Catherine's  bathing  her- 
self in  the  odorous  waters,  as  many  times  as  the  proud 
leper  was  commanded  to  wash  in  the  waves  of  Jordan. 
The  children — she  would  not  hear  of  them.  They 
might  bring  distemper  with  them;  there  was  an  orphan 
asylum  in  which  they  could  be  placed.  She  was 


298  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

going  to  make  immediate  preparations  to  leave  the 
town,  and  visit  some  watering  place,  where  they 
would  be  secure  from  contagion.  Baffled  in  her  be- 
nevolent wishes,  Catherine  entreated  Clifton  to  find  a 
home  for  the  orphans,  on  the  condition  tlul  she  should 
be  allowed  to  defray  all  expenses  connected  with  the 
charge.  This  Clifton  did  not  resist,  for  he  knew  it 
would  flow  back  in  blessings  on  herself. 

A  pious  and  respectable  widow  consented  to  receive 
them,  and  Catherine  never  forgot  her  protege's.  Mrs. 
Milner's  alarm  did  not  subside,  and  another  motive, 
unavowed,  induced  her  to  hasten  her  departure,  her 
anxiety  to  remove  Catherine  from  the  influence  of 
Clifton.  Her  anger,  too,  at  the  occurrence  which  took 
place  at  the  party,  accelerated  her  movements. 
Catherine  saw  with  dismay  the  arrangements  for  their 
speedy  removal  from  the  society  of  one,  whom  she 
now  regarded  as  her  best  counsellor,  and  truest  friend. 
Frank  openly  resisted  the  plan,  but  finding  it  in  vain 
to  alter  his  aunt's  determination,  he  urged  Clifton  to 
accompany  them,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  which  he 
was  master.  "I  cannot  go  with  you,"  replied  he; 
here  Mrs.  Milner  breathed  freely,  "  but  I  will  endea- 
vour to  follow,"  here  her  brow  again  clouded,  while 
Catherine's  brightened  as  if  a  sunbeam  flashed  over 
it.  They  were  to  commence  their  journey  early  in 
the  morning — Clifton  lingered  till  a  late  hour  in  the 
evening.  He  spoke  to  Catherine  with  all  the  freedom 
and  tenderness  of  a  brother,  and  at  her  own  request 
sketched  the  outline  of  his  sainted  sister's  character 
and  life,  for  Catherine  resolved  in  her  heart  she 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        299 

would  make  them  the  model  of  her  own.  She  no 
longer  thought  it  a  gloomy  theme — she  could  even 
hear  him  speak  of  death  without  shuddering,  for  she 
began  to  perceive  beyond  its  shadows,  the  dawn  of 
an  eternal  day. 

"Thank  Godl"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Milner,  as  the 
carriage  rolled  away  from  the  door,  and  the  last 
glimpse  of  Clifton's  figure  was  excluded  from  their 
view. 

"  For  what  ?"  asked  Frank,  abruptly. 

"  For  being  relieved  of  the  company  of  that  young 
man.  He  has  changed  you  and  Catherine  into  perfect 
mopes,  and  me,  too,  almost — I  really  have  not  felt 
well  since  he  came  among  us." 

Catherine  either  could  not  or  would  not  speak.  She 
sat  veiled  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  turned  not 
at  the  voice  of  her  aunt.  Not  so  Frank — he  could 
not  hear  Clifton  lightly  named. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  warmly,  "  there  is  more  real  worth 
in  one  joint  of  Clifton's  little  finger,  than  in  all  the 
young  men  you  ever  knew  in  your  whole  existence. 
He  is  truth  to  his  heart's  core.  He  would  sacrifice 
his  life  for  his  enenvy  — more  he  could  not  do  for  a 
friend.  Mopes !  I  never  knew  one  hour  of  real 
happiness  till  I  knew  him,  nor  Catherine  either,  I  am 
confident,  though  she  may  not  be  bold  enough  to 
declare  it." 

"  Well,  Frank,"  replied  she,  angrily,  "  I  will  not 
say  more  now,  as  you  are  so  warm,  but  I  never  wish 
to  see  him  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  dear  aunt,  but  when  you  come 


300  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

to  die,  you  may  •wish  in  vain  for  such  a  friend  as 
Clifton." 

Mrs.  Milner  looked  as  if  she  thought  that  hour  was 
far  distant;  but  in  such  an  hour  as  we  think  not,  "the 
Son  of  Man  cometh."  She  awoke  that  night  with  a 
violent  pain  in  her  head,  and  a  burning  thirst,  ac- 
companie  1  by  indescribable  and  alarming  sensations. 
Slie)|uul  fled  precipitately  from  disease,  but  it  pur- 
sued her  like  a  strong  man  armed,  and  she  now 
lay  powerless  in  its  grasp.  As  a  traveller  she  was 
deprived  of  the  comforts  of  home,  and  was  compelled 
to  employ  as  a  physician,  a  stranger,  in  whose  skill 
she  had  no  confidence.  Catherine  was  terrified.  She 
had  never  seen  her  aunt  sick  in  her  life.  She  had 
lived  as  if  she  expected  immortality  on  earth.  It 
was  a  melancholy  thing  to  see  her  prostrated  so 
suddenly  on  a  sick  bed.  She  insisted  upon  going 
home  immediately.  She  would  be  well  as  soon  as 
she  returned,  she  was  sure,  but  the  moment  she  lifted 
her  head  from  the  pillow,  her  brain  reeled  and  her 
limbs  refused  their  office.  In  a  few  hours  she  was 
raving  in  delirium,  and  the  physician  declared  her 
life  in  the  utmost  danger.  Messengers  were  dispatched 
for  her  medical  friends,  but  before  they  arrived,  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  eternity,  and  no  human  hand 
could  hold  her  back  from  the  awful  abyss  in  which  she 
was  about  to  plunge.  It  was  a  fearful  thing  to  hear 
her  raving  about  fashion  and  fine  dresses,  and  Cathe- 
rine's beauty,  thus  weaving  of  vanity  a  winding-sheet 
for  her  soul,  the  grave-clothes  which  it  must  wear 
into  the  presence  of  a  holy  God. 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        301 

"  Oil  I"  exclaimed  Catherine,  as  she  hung  in  agony 
over  her  bed,  "  oh,  that  Clifton  were  here,  that  he 
might  breathe  one  such  prayer  over  her  as  I  heard 
him  breathe  over  that  poor,  dying  woman!" 

"  My  sister,"  said  Frank,  "  let  us  kneel  together,  and 
pray  that  Clifton's  God  may  be  ours.  The  voice  of 
prayer  cannot  reach  her  ear,  but  it  will  be  heard  by 
Him  whose  mercy  is  equal  to  his  power." 

It  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  that  brother  and 
sister  kneeling  by  the  dying  bed  of  her  who  had 
never  instilled  into  their  young  hearts  one  principle 
of  religion,  who  had  dedicated  them  to  the  GoJ  of  this 
world,  totally  regardless  of  another,  and  who  had 
never  lifted  one  prayer  for  herself  or  them,  but  had 
risen  up  and  laid  down  like  the  beasts  that  perish,  to 
eat,  to  drink,  to  sleep,  and  then  to  die. 

Mrs.  Milner  died.  No  ray  of  reason  broke  in 
on  her  departing  soul — no  consolation  remained  for 
her  weeping  friends.  The  last  words  she  uttered 
rung  in  Catherine's  ear,  long  after  her  body  was 
mouldering  in  the  grave.  "Take  it  back,"  said  she, 
after  having  given  directions  for  a  new  dress  in  the 
latest  style,  "take  it  back,  it  is  old-fashioned,  and 
stiff.  It  does  not  fit  rne.  The  chamber  is  narrow, 
and  the  robe  must  be  tight.  The  folds  must  lay  close 
and  smooth,  and  take  care  the  dust  does  not  soil  it. 
It  looks  wondrous  white."  White  indeed  was  the 
last  robe  she  wore,  and  the  folds  once  laid,  they  never 
moved  again. 

To  avoid  details  too  minute  for  the  limits  of  a 
story  like  this,  we  will  pass  over  the  interval  of  a 


802  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

year,  and  introduce  Catherine  Meredith  once  more  to 
our  readers  in  her  own  home,  which  was  to  be  her 
home  no  longer.  Owing  to  the  boundless  extrava- 
gance of  Mrs.  Milner,  who  proved  so  faithless  a 
guardian  to  the  trust  imposed,  Catherine's  fortune 
was  completely  exhausted,  and  Frank  found  when  ha 
had  cancelled  every  debt,  he  had  scarcely  enough  left 
for  a  support.  The  splendid  house  of  their  father 
was  given  up,  and  they  were  about  to  remove  to  a 
small  cottage  in  the  country,  where  Frank  intended 
to  prepare  himself  for  the  ministry,  and  Catherine 
to  engage  in  the  instruction  of  youth.  Catherine  sat 
alone  in  the  spacious  apartment,  which  had  been  so 
often  thronged  with  gay  and  flattering  guests.  She 
was  dressed  in  simple  mourning,  and  her  hair  parted 
on  her  brow,  without  ringlets  or  ornaments.  Her 
cheek  was  pale,  and  her  eye  more  thoughtful  than  in 
her  days  of  vanity,  but  "  that  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding"  now  beamed  from  her  countenance, 
and  pervaded  her  heart.  True,  she  felt  some  natural 
regrets  at  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood,  where 
every  object  was  endeared  to  her  juvenile  memory. 
She  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  touched  the  keys  for 
the  last  time.  She  began  a  hymn  that  Clifton  had 
taught  her,  but  overcome  by  her  feelings,  she  paused, 
and  leaning  her  face  on  the  instrument,  tears  fell 
thick  and  fast  upon  the  keys,  which  had  so  many 
times  responded  to  her  flying  fingers.  The  door 
opened,  but  she  did  not  raise  her  head.  She  thought 
she  knew  her  brother's  footsteps.  Some  one  s;it  down 
by  her  side,  but  still  she  moved  not,  for  assured  of 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        303 

Frank's  affectionate  sympathy,  she  was  not  ashamed 
of  her  emotion.  Her  hand  was  gently  taken,  and 
she  withdrew  it  not,  believing  it  the  same  fraternal 
hand  which  had  always  soothed  her  sorrows,  and 
wiped  away  her  tears.  "  Catherine,"  said  a  voice,  as 
kind  and  tender,  but  far  different  from  Frank's.  It 
was  Clifton,  the  brother  of  her  adoption,  and  from 
this  moment,  the  destiny  of  Catherine  was  changed. 
She  was  told  that  she  was  loved  by  one  whom  she 
revered  as  the  best  and  holiest  of  created  beings,  as 
her  guide  to  heaven,  her  counsellor  and  consoler  on 
earth.  Catherine,  in  the  true  humility  of  her  heart, 
believed  herself  unworthy  of  his  love,  but  she  doubted 
not  his  sincerity,  and  she  lifted  up  her  heart  in  grati- 
tude to  heaven  for  having  provided  her  with  a  friend 
so  dear.  Clifton  had  not  stood  aloof  from  them, 
during  the  year  which  had  flown  by.  Many  a  time 
previous  to  this  hour,  his  heart  had  yearned  to  pour 
forth  the  tenderness  that  filled  it  to  overflowing,  but 
he  feared  the  change  in  Catherine's  character  might 
be  rather  the  result  of  feeling  than  principle,  and  that 
she  might  relapse  again  into  her  former  habits  of 
self-indulgence  and  folly.  Now,  however,  when  he 
saw  her  continuing  in  the  narrow  path  of  duty  with 
undeviating  steps,  unmoved  by  the  ridicule  of  her 
former  associates,  preparing  herself  for  a  life  oPexer- 
tion  and  self-denial,  with  more  than  resignation,  with 
energy  and  cheerfulness;  he  felt  that  he  could  take 
her  by  the  hand,  and  bind  her  to  his  heart  with  in- 
dissoluble ties — ties  which  death  could  not  sever, 
and  eternity  would  more  closely  unite. 


804  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  Did  you  know  that  .Catherine  Meredith  was  mar- 
ried this  morning  to  that  methodistical  young  man  ?" 
asked  one  of  Catherine's  former  associates  of  another. 
"  I  always  thought  it  would  be  a  match,  for  the  poor 
girl  almost  run  crazy  after  him." 

"  Well,  I  wish  her  joy,"  answered  the  other.  "I  am 
sure  no  one  envies  her.  They  say  he  is  very  poor 
and  exceedingly  penurious.  I  know  well  enough  she 
will  get  tired  of  her  conventicle  life — such  a  proud, 
vain  flirt  as  she  used  to  be,  is  not  changed  so  soon.  It 
is  all  hypocrisy.  She  put  on  religion,  as  she  would 
put  on  a  new  dress,  to  catch  her  husband,  and  she 
will  put  it  off  as  readily,  when  it  suits  her  conve- 
nience." 

"And  what  do  you  think,"  observed  the  first 
speaker,  "  of  her  handsome  brother  Frank  ?  They  say 
he  is  going  to  turn  a  preacher  since  he  has  lost  his 
property.  Poor  Mrs.  Milner  little  thought,  when  she 
died,  of  such  a  downfall  to  her  hopes.  I  believe  she 
thought  Catherine  might  have  married  any  prince  in 
Europe.  She  was  an  excellent  woman,  after  all — 
gave  such  elegant  parties ;— she  was  a  great  loss  to 
society." 

So  the  heartless  world  spoke  of  the  future  prospects 
of  those  who  had  withdrawn  from  its  unhallowed  in- 
fluence. Let  us  follow  Catherine  for  one  moment  to 
her  new  home,  and  see  whether  she  is  wedded  to 
penury  and  avarice.  The  last  light  of  day,  that  soft- 
ened yet  glowing  light,  which  allows  the  eye  to  dwell 
umlazzled  on  the  loveliness  of  nature,  was  lingering 
on  the  landscape.  The  richness  and  maturity  of  latent 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        305 

summer  mellowed  the  tints,  but  no  trace  of  autumnal 
decay  yet  marked  the  magnificent  garniture  of  the 
fields  and  bowers.  The  bridal  travellers  were  ascend- 
ing a  gradual  slope,  from  which  the  prospect  every 
moment  expanded  into  deeper  loveliness,  when  Cathe- 
rine's eye  was  attracted  by  a  white  mansion,  gleaming 
through  overshadowing  trees,  in  classic  beauty  and 
simplicity,  situated  remote  from  the  road,  and  sur- 
rounded by  an  expanse  of  living  green. 

"  Whose  beautiful  dwelling-place  is  that  ?"  said 
Catherine. 

"  Let  us  pause  a  moment  on  the  brow  of  this  hill, 
that  we  may  observe  more  leisurely  this  enchanting 
view."  Clifton  ordered  the  carriage  to  stop,  and 
Catherine  gazed  with  delighted  eye  around  her. 
"The  owner  of  that  mansion,  my  beloved  Cathe- 
rine," said  Clifton,  while  he  followed  with  his  own 
her  beaming  glances,  "is  a  most  blessed  and  happy 
man.  Heaven  has  endowed  him  with  wealth,  and  also 
inspired  him  with  a  desire  to  make  the  gift  subser- 
vient to  his  Creator's  glory.  His  heart  overflows  with 
love  to  his  fellow-men,  yet  he  felt  alone  in  the  world, 
for,  in  common  with  other  men,  he  was  called  to 
weep  over  the  graves  of  his  kindred.  He  sighed  for 
a  bosom  on  which  he  could  repose  his  cares  and  his 
trust.  He  sought  it  not  among  the  daughters  of 
fashion,  and  yet  he  found  it.  He  is  now  in  possession 
of  a  wife  most  lovely  to  his  sight,  but  far  more  lovely 
to  his  soul; — a  meek,  devoted,  Christian  wife,  who, 
having  loved  him  for  himself  alone,  unconscious  of 
his  wealth,  now  comes  to  share  it,  and  help  him  to 
19 


806  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

distribute  it  among  the  children  of  sorrow  and  of 
want."  Catherine  threw  herself  into  her  husband's 
arms  and  wept,  but  they  were  tears  of  gratitude  and 
joy ;  not  for  the  affluence  that  was  again  to  be  her 
portion,  but  that  she  was  the  wife  of  Clifton — deemed 
worthy  to  be  his  handmaid  and  partner  on  earth,  and 
destined,  she  humbly  believed,  to  be  his  companion 
hereafter,  in  that  world  "  where  there  shall  be  no  more 
marrying  or  giving  in  marriage,  but  where  all  shall 
be  like  the  angels  of  God  in  heaven." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE-        307 


"MARY  HAWTHORNE,  why  don't  you  come  into  the 
drawing-room?  There  is  not  a  very  large  company, 
so  you  need  not  be  frightened  away  to-night." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  had  rather  pass  the  evening 
in  your  father's  chamber.  He  will  be  alone,  and  will 
welcome  me,  I  know;  and  in  the  drawing-room,  I 
should  be  a  mere  cipher  to  others,  while  I  would 
myself  suffer  the  tortures  which  none  but  bashful 
people  can  know." 

"  Well,  if  you  persist  in  your  old-fashioned  ways, 
I  suppose  I  must  let  you  follow  them ;  I  acknowledge 
there  is  nothing  particularly  attractive  as  yet  in  the 
assembly,  so  let  us  walk  awhile  on  this  green  plat, 
and  make  our  observations,  through  these  lighted 
windows,  on  the  figures  so  gaily  dressed." 

The  speaker,  a  fashionable-looking,  gaily-dressed 
young  man,  led  his  companion  along,  as  he  spoke,  to 
the  spot  indicated ;  and  as  they  slowly  promenaded  in 
the  shade,  he  criticised  with  a  practised  eye  the  dress, 
air,  and  attitudes  of  the  group  within,  illuminated  as 
it  was  by  the  shower  of  silver  light  that  fell  from  the 
brilliant  chandeliers.  There  could  not  be  a  greater 
contrast  in  appearance,  than  between  the  young  man 
and  his  companion.  Her  apparel  was  remarkable  in 
such  a  scene,  from  its  extreme  simplicity ;  and  there 
was  no  glow  of  beauty  on  her  face,  or  striking  graces 
of  person,  to  render  the  absence  of  all  adventitious 


308  COURTSHIP  AXD  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

ornament  forgotten  by  the  beholder.  She  was  not 
beautiful ;  she  was  not  handsome ;  not  even  what  the 
world  calls  pretty,  and  yet  she  is  the  heroine  of  my 
story — and  Henry  Graham,  the  hero,  was  called  the 
handstfmest  man  in  his  mother's  drawing-room,  when 
the  elite  of  the  city  were  gathered  there,  as  they  were 
often  wont  to  be. 

"Had  you  not  better  go  in?"  said  Mary,  as  she 
observed  the  stately  figure  of  Mrs.  Graham  pass  and 
repass  the  windows,  pausing  to  say  a  few  words  to 
this  guest,  bowing  graciously  to  that,  smiling  benig- 
nantly  on  one,  offering  a  fan  to  another,  the  embodied 
spirit  of  politeness,  ever  moving,  yet  ever  seeming 
exactly  in  the  right  spot. 

"Not  yet;  stay  awhile  longer — there  is  no  one 
there  I  care  any  thing  about ;  and  you  know  I  never 
trouble  myself  to  entertain  those  who  are  indifferent 
to  me.  It  is  incredible  to  me  how  my  mother 
(Heaven  forgive  her !)  can  condescend  to  put  on  that 
eternal  smile,  and  to  appear  so  delighted  with  people 
whom  in  her  heart  she  despises,  laughs  at,  or  dislikes. 
I  must  say,  however,  her  smiles  become  her  very 
muoh;  she  is  a  noble-looking  woman,  and  under- 
stands the  art  of  dressing  better  than  any  lady  I 
know — I  wish  you  would  take  lessons  of  her, 
Mary." 

"  When  I  am  as  handsome  as  your  mother,  I  will 
certainly  do  it.  Let  excessive  attention  to  dress  be 
the  peculiar  privilege  of  beauty:  /claim  the  less 
appropriated  one  of  unadorned  homeliness." 

"  You  do   injustice   to   yourself — you    look    very 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        809 

well,  Mary,  vastly  better  than  a  hundred  prettier 
girls.  If  you  would  summon  a  little  more  confidence, 
and  assume  an  air,  a  manner — that  something,  whose 
fascination  we  feel,  yet  cannot  describe :  dress, with  a 
little  more  taste  and  fashion,  you  would  find  that 
nature  has  not  been  such  a  niggard  after  all.  You 
would  be  astonished  yourself  at  the  metamorphosis." 

"It  must  have  been  far  easier  to  transform  Daphne 
into  a  laurel  tree,  and  Narcissus  into  a  flower,  than  an 
awkward  girl  like  me,  into  a  modern  fine  lady.  Oh, 
Henry  1"  she  continued,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  "  if 
you  knew  what  I  suffer  when  I  am  in  the  midst  of  a 
scene  like  the  one  reflected  before  us,  you  would 
never  ask  me  to  enter  upon  it.  When  I  see  so  many 
fair  forms,  and  so  many  admiring  eyes  bent  upon 
them,  I  cannot  but  make  comparisons  humbling  to 
myself;  and  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  would  barter  an 
empire,  if  I  had  it,  for  such  claims  to  honour :  ay,  'tis 
true,  I  grow  envious ;  and  then  I  hate  myself." 

"  Strange  girl !  With  such  a  soul "  he  was 

going  on,  probably,  to  exalt  the  perfections  of  the  soul 
in  comparison  with  those  of  the  body,  when  his  atten- 
tion became  suddenly  and  completely  distracted  ;  his 
eye  rested  on  a  lady,  who,  at  that  moment,  entered 
the  drawing-room,  and  hastily  saying,  "  I  believe  it  is 
time  I  should  be  there,"  Mary  found  herself  alone 
beneath  the  mulberry  tree,  under  which  they  had  just 
been  standing.  The  most  laboured  eloquence  could 
not  have  convinced  her  more  of  the  justice  of  her 
own  reflections  with  regard  to  personal  beauty,  than 
this  simple  act.  The  lady  whom  Henry  so  eagerly 


310  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   TELE 

sought,  was  beautiful— splendidly,  surpassingly  beau- 
tiful :  not  from  mere  regularity  of  feature,  and  bril- 
liancy of  complexion,  but  there  was  an  air  of  regality 
about  her,  a  queenly  grace,  such  as  Mary's  imagina- 
tion had  invested  her  lovely  namesake  of  the  house 
of  Stuart  with.  She  was  dressed  magnificently ;  but 
the  jewelry  of  her  eyes  transcended  the  gems  that 
glittered  on  her  neck  and  arms ;  and  even  the  diamond 
star,  that  shone  midst  the  darkness  of  her  hair,  flashed 
not  more  brightly  than  the  glances  she  scattered  like 
sun-rays  around  her.  "Wherever  she  moved  there 
was  a  buzz,  a  commotion,  a  pressing  forward  of  the 
gentlemen — a  subsiding  motion  among  the  ladies. 
But  who  could  marvel?  She  moved  with  such  grace! 
Mary  caught  herself  repeating,  before  she  was  aware 
of  the  recollection, 

"  The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water — 
So  moves  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter." 

Wherever  the  fair  stranger  turned,  Henry  Graham 
followed  her,  with  an  animation  of  countenance  and 
earnestness  of  manner,  strikingly  contrasted  with  the 
languor  and  indifference  he  generally  manifested, 
when  he  felt  no  motive  to  call  into  exercise  those 
powers  of  pleasing  with  which  he  was  eminently  en- 
dowed. Mary  sighed ;  she  was  vexed  with  herself 
for  sighing — she  feared  she  was  growing  very  envious. 

"I  would  rather  die,"  said  she  to  herself,  "than 
give  myself  up  to  the  dominion  of  such  a  hateful 
passion.  Conscious  as  I  am  of  having  that  within 
which  should  lift  me  above  such  grovelling  thoughts 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        311 

— a  heart  glowing  with  the  love  of  all  that's  excel- 
lent and  fair — a  soul  capable  of  bearing  me  to  the 
very  gates  of  the  empyrean " 

She  remembered,  then,  her  office  as  nurse,  in  the 
chamber  of  the  invalid  master  of  the  gay  mansion, 
and  quitting  her  post  of  observation,  she  passed  the 
illuminated  hall,  and  softly  unclosed  the  door  of  an 
apartment,  where  she  knew  her  light  footstep  was 
always  welcomed  with  joy. 

"  Mary,  my  dear,  is  it  you  ?"  asked  a  mild  voice,  as 
she  entered.  She  answered  by  smoothing  the  pillow 
on  which  the  invalid  leaned  in  his  easy  chair,  and 
placing  his  footstool  in  a  more  comfortable  position. 
What  a  change  did  this  silent  chamber  present  from 
the  hall  into  which  she  had  just  been  gazing !  The 
dim  lamps  that  burned  upon  the  table,  the  close-drawn 
curtains  shutting  out  the  soft  breath  of  evening,  the 
white  locks  and  wan  face  that  reclined  upon  the 
pillow — called  up  a  very  different  train  of  reflections 
from  the  dazzling  lights,  the  crimson  folds  drawn 
back  by  gilded  shafts,  the  proud  mien  and  flushed 
cheek  of  Mrs.  Graham,  or  the  gaiety  and  splendour 
of  her  guests.  She  thought  of  her  mother's  sick 
room  and  dying  hour,  her  own  deserted  home,  and, 
drawing  a  low  chair  near  Mr.  Graham,  she  sat  down 
in  silence,  for  her  heart  was  too  full  for  speech. 

And  who  is  Mary  Hawthorne  ?  What  relation  does 
she  bear  to  the  family  of  the  Grahams  ?  And  where 
did  she  acquire  those  rustic,  retiring  habits,  so  uncon- 
genial with  her  present  situation  ?  may  be  questions 
naturally  asked  and  easily  answered. 


312  COUKTSHIP   AXl;    MAKUIAGE;    OR,   THK 

Mary's  mother  was  cousin  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and  in 
early  youth  had  been  her  play-fellow,  school-mate, 
and  most  familiar  friend.  An  imprudent  marriage, 
whose  result  was  a  blighting  of  the  heart,  poverty, 
and  seclusion  from  the  world,  removed  her  entirely 
from  Mrs.  Graham's  prosperous  and  brilliant  sphere. 
Left  in  widowhood  with  scarcely  the  means  of  sup- 
port, yet  too  proud  to  ask  assistance  from  the  early 
friends,  whose  neglect  and  alienation  she  bitterly  felt, 
she  continued  to  struggle  with  her  destiny,  and  to 
bear  up  herself  and  her  young  daughter  above  the 
cold  waters  of  despair  that  seemed  fast  closing  around 
her,  till,  finding  herself  sick  and  dying,  she  sent  a 
messenger  to  the  once  affectionate  friend  of  her  youth, 
and  entreated  her  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a  dying 
mother's  prayer,  to  receive  and  cherish  her  desolate 
child. 

Mrs.  Graham's  good  feelings  were  not  so  utterly 
worn  out  in  the  pursuit  of  the  world's  pleasures,  as  to 
be  unaffected  by  a  petition  like  this.  She  promised 
all  that  was  asked ;  and  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  last  sigh 
was  mingled  with  a  throb  of  deep  thanksgiving. 
Mary,  the  humble,  disciplined  child  of  adversity  and 
eorrow,  became  a  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  one 
who,  from  her  cradle,  had  been  dandled  in  the  lap  of 
smiling  prosperity,  and  knew  adversity  and  sorrow  only 
by  name.  Accustomed  to  the  unbounded  indulgence 
of  her  own  passions,  Mrs.  Graham  never  reflected,  that 
others  might  have  passions  and  feelings  too.  Con- 
sideration made  no  part  of  her  character.  When  she 
granted  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  petition,  she  had  flattered 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN"  LIFE.        313 

herself  that  her  orphan  protege  would  give  her  addi- 
tional eclat  in  society ;  she  had  delineated  her  in  her 
own  imagination,  with  the  classic  outline  of  her 
mother's  beautiful  face — a  fair,  drooping  lily,  gemmed 
with  the  dews  of  sorrow,  that  would  contrast  sweetly 
with  the  roses  of  beauty  she  gathered  into  her  draw- 
ing-room. Her  disappointment  at  seeing  Mary  was 
extreme,  and  she  had  not  the  delicacy  or  kindness  to 
conceal  it.  The  weeds  of  mourning  and  the  pallor  of 
deep  grief,  had  a  most  unfavourable  effect  on  Mary's 
naturally  pale  complexion  and  downcast  eyes ;  while 
awed  by  the  unwonted  splendour  that  surrounded  her, 
she  exhibited  an  embarrassment  of  manner,  which,  to 
the  self-possessed  and  graceful  Mrs.  Graham,  had  the 
character  of  incurable  awkwardness. 

"What  a  pity  she's  not  prettier  1"  said  she  to  a 
female  friend,  in  a  low  voice,  but  which  Mary,  accus- 
tomed to  watch  for  the  feeble  accents  of  her  mother, 
distinctly  heard ;  "  I  cannot  conceive  how  it  happens ; 
her  mother  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  I 
ever  saw ;  I  am  shockingly  disappointed ;  she  seems 
excessively  awkward,  too,  poor  thing  1" 

Cold  and  heavy  as  lead  did  each  unfeeling  word 
sink  in  poor  Mary's  woe- worn  heart.  Convicted  of  the 
atrocious  crime  of  not  being  handsome,  she  had  an 
intuitive  perception,  that  the  qualities  of  the  head  and 
heart,  which,  amidst  all  the  ills  of  life,  her  mother  had 
constantly  taught  her  to  cultivate,  would  be  considered 
as  of  little  value  in  the  estimation  of  Mrs.  Graham. 
All  the  warm  feelings  of  gratitude  and  love,  which 
she  was  ready  to  pour  out  at  the  feet  of  her  benefac- 


314:  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

tress,  were  congealed  at  the  fountain.  She  sickened 
in  the  midst  of  profusion,  and  would  gladly  have  laid 
herself  in  her  mother's  grave  and  died,  if  she  could 
have  escaped  the  chagrin  and  isolation  of  her  present 
lot.  To  have  nobody  to  love  her,  nobody  to  love  in 
return,  it  was  a  living  death,  a  frozen  life ;  she  could 
not  endure  it.  At  last  she  found  an  object  on  whom 
she  could  lavish  her  sympathy,  her  affections,  and  her 
cares.  She  had  been  for  some  time  a  member  of  the 
household  before  she  knew  there  was  such  a  being  iu 
the  world  as  Mr.  Graham.  There  was  such  a  constant 
bustle  about  the  house,  such  an  ebbing  and  flowing 
of  the  tide  of  fashionable  life,  she  was  perfectly  be- 
wildered; her  faculties  of  seeing  and  hearing  seemed 
to  have  become  dim  and  weakened ;  she  felt  a  mere 
speck  herself,  a  mote  in  the  sunbeam,  whose  oppressive 
glare  withered  up  her  young  heart. 

One  evening,  she  never  forgot  it,  when  sitting  sad 
and  unnoticed  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  Henry  Gra- 
ham, who,  though  the  flattered  votary  of  fashion,  was 
gifted  by  nature  with  warm  and  generous  feelings, 
took  compassion  on  the  forlornness  of  her  situation, 
and  asked  her  to  walk  in  the  garden  and  help  him  to 
gather  some  flowers  for  his  father.  His  father !  it  was 
the  first  time  she  had  heard  his  name.  She  then 
learned  from  him,  that  Mr.  Graham  had  been  long 
confined  to  his  room,  by  a  chronic  disease,  which, 
though  not  attended  with  any  immediate  danger,  was 
a  source  of  frequent  suffering,  and  excluded  him  from 
all  the  active  pleasures  of  existence. 

"Oh,  let   me  go  to   him,"  exclaimed   Mary;   "let 


JOYS  AND  SOKEOWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        315 

me  stay  with  him  and  nurse  him ;  I  am  too  dull,  too 
sad,  to  be  where  I  am;  will  you  not  take  me  to  him?" 
Henry  was  moved  by  the  earnestness  of  her  man- 
ner; it  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  distinctly 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  or  seen  the  colour  of  her 
eyes;  for,  dismayed  by  the  remarks  of  Mrs.  Graham 
on  her  personal  appearance,  she  had  remained  per- 
fectly silent  from  that  moment  in  company,  unless 
directly  addressed,  with  drooping  lids,  that  too  often 
covered  tears,  that  would  but  dared  not  fall.  She 
now  spoke  with  fervour,  and  her  voice,  though  low, 
had  an  uncommon  sweetness  of  tone;  and  her  mild, 
sad  gray  eye  lighted  up  with  an  expression  which  not 
only  indicated  exalted  feeling,  but  intellectual  power. 
Henry,  though  he  had  made  his  best  endeavours  to 
bring  down  his  mind  to  the  level  of  coxcombry, 
and  to  form  himself  after  the  most  admired  models 
of  fashion,  had  not  been  quite  able  to  do  it.  The 
celestial  spark  would  occasionally  flash  out.  He 
had  looked  upon  Mary  as  a  kind  of  automaton,  a 
poor  girl  whom  it  was  his  mother's  business  to  feed 
and  clothe,  and,  as  such,  entitled  to  kindness  on  his 
part.  He  now  saw  that  she  was  a  feeling,  thinking 
being,  and  Mary  understood,  with  surprise  and  de- 
light, she  might  look  for  sympathy  where  she  had 
least  expected  it.  He  walked  with  her  through  the 
garden,  pointing  out  to  her  observation  what  he 
thought  most  worthy  of  admiration,  conducted  her 
kindly  to  his  father's  chamber,  was  very  sorry  he 
hud  not  time  to  remain  himself,  and  left  her,  happier 
than  she  had  been  since  she  was  an  orphan. 


316  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

She  was  surprised  when  she  saw  an  aged  man, 
with  snowy  hair,  reclining  on  a  couch,  by  the  side 
of  which  Henry  had  seated  her.  Mrs.  Graham,  in 
full  dress,  might  have  passed  for  the  elder  sister  of 
her  son,  and  could  not  have  numbered  half  the 
years  of  her  husband.  "  This  must  be  Henry's  grand- 
sire,"  thought  she,  "and  yet  he  called  him  father." 
She  was  mistaken — it  was  Mr.  Graham,  the  neglected 
husband  of  his  younger,  gayer  wife,  breathing  out 
his  unvalued  existence,  uncheered  by  those  sooth- 
ing attentions,  those  offices  of  love,  which  can  trans- 
form the  couch  of  sickness  into  a  bed  of  roses.  Yet 
many  a  poor  cabin  dweller  doubtless  envied  him 
his  damask  canopy,  downy  pillows,  and  numerous 
attendants,  nor  dreamed  that  the  inmate  of  such  an 
apartment  could  sigh  from  the  consciousness  of 
neglect.  He  must  have  been  a  very  exacting  man, 
for  Mrs.  Graham  came  into  the  room  almost  every 
day,  to  inquire  after  his  health,  which  was  very  kind, 
as  he  had  been  sick  so  long,  it  would  have  been 
natural  not  to  think  of  him  at  all;  and  Henry,  who 
certainly  loved  his  father,  often  devoted  an  hour  at 
a  time  to  read  to  him  or  converse  with  him.  He 
would  gladly  have  done  more  to  prove  his  filial 
devotion,  but  then,  as  he  himself  had  told  Mary,  he 
had  so  little  time.  He  was  obliged  to  attend  his 
mother  to  so  many  parties,  to  see  so  much  compnay 
at  home,  to  go  to  the  theatre  and  the  ball-room  so 
often,  he  was  so  much  admired  and  caressed,  and 
he  was  so  unaffectedly  and  constitutionally  indolent, 
it  was  surprising  how  he  was  able  to  accomplish  so 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        317 

much.  From  the  hour  Mary  first  stood  by  his  side, 
and  offered,  with  a  trembling  hand,  the  flowers  she 
had  gathered  in  the  evening,  whose  commencemeDt 
we  have  just  described,  during:  the  lapse  of  a  year, 
she  had  been  to  him  a  ministering  spirit  of  kindness 
and  love.  She  became  as  light  to  his  eyes  and 
fragrance  to  his  senses.  The  face  which  was  disre- 
garded or  criticised  by  the  side  of  the  heartless  belle, 
was  welcomed  by  him  as  an  angel  visitor.  She  came 
to  him  arrayed  in  the  beauty  of  gentle  words  and 
deeds,  and  his  chilled  bosom  melted  with  tenderness, 
and  warmed  towards  her  with  more  than  a  father's 
love.  Nor  did  she  confine  herself  to  mere  physical 
attentions.  She  administered  to  his  mind  the  food 
it  loved,  read  to  him  hour  after  hour,  till  lulled  by 
her  voice,  he  slumbered  quietly  as  a  soothed  infant. 
Mary  grew  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  being  loved, 
of  being  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  another.  She 
had  another  source  of  happiness  in  the  society  of 
Henry,  who  found  a  relief  from  ennui  in  her  natural 
and  unpretending  conversation,  exalted,  as  it  often- 
times was,  by  beauty  of  imagination  and  vigour  of 
thought.  When  weary  of  playing  the  part  of  a  fine 
gentleman,  weary  of  shining  and  being  shone  upon, 
or  of  lounging  on  a  sofa,  or  sauntering  through  the 
hall,  he  thought  of  Mary,  and  found  himself  refreshed 
and  invigorated  in  her  presence.  The  best,  the  kind- 
est of  feelings  of  his  nature  were  called  into  exercise 
by  this  companionship,  for  Mary  never  touched  a  chord 
of  the  human  heart  that  did  not  answer  in  sweet 
music,  provided  that  the  heart  were  rightly  tuned. 


318  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

He  learned  to  look  upon  her  with  the  kindness  and 
consideration  of  a  brother,  and  sought  to  draw  her 
more  into  society,  but  here  his  efforts  were  generally 
unavailing. 

"  Mary,  my  child,  do  not  stay  with  me  to-night, 
said  Mr.  Graham,  laying  his  hand  on  her  head,  as  she 
drew  a  low  seat  close  to  him,  and  leaned  on  the 
elbow  of  his  chair— "you  make  yourself  too  much  of 
a  nun;  I  am  a  selfish  old  man,  I  know,  but  I  cannot 
bear  to  see  you  deprive  yourself  of  every  gratification 
at  your  age." 

"I  find  my  chief  pleasure  here;  I  cannot  even 
claim  the  merit  of  making  a  sacrifice,  for  if  I  did  not 
remain  with  you,  I  should  most  probably  retire  to  my 
own  room." 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you,  Mary,  but  I 
cannot  do  it  to-night;  I  feel  too  languid  for  the  effort; 
another  time  when  I  can  rally  a  little  more  strength, 
remember  what  I  have  said:  I  must  not  defer  it  too 
long,  for  my  life  is  gliding  away,  grain  after  grain ;  a 
few  more  turnings  of  the  glass  and  it  will  all  be  over. 
Does  it  make  you  weep,  child,  to  hear  me  speak  thus? 
Well,  take  down  that  book  and  read  me  to  sleep,  for 
my  eyes  are  heavy,  and  it  is  better  that  I  should  not 
talk  now." 

Mary  took  the  book,  and  began  to  read  in  those 
low,  gentle  tones,  so  soothing  to  a  sick  man's  ear.  It 
was  not  long  before  his  deepened  breathing  convinced 
her  that  her  voice  was  no  longer  heard.  She  paused 
awhile,  and  turning  over  the  pages,  tried  to  continue 
reading  to  herself,  but  though  it  was  an  author  she 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        319 

loved,  she  could  not  fasten  her  attention  upon  a  single 
paragraph.  Her  eyes  ran  over  the  lines,  and  mechani- 
cally took  in  the  words,  but  her  thoughts  wandered 
after  the  dazzling  stranger.  Iler  curiosity  was  ex- 
cite 1 — she  wondered  at  its  own  intensity.  She  longed 
for  the  morning,  that  she  might  ask  Henry  her  name 
and  residence.  She  laid  down  her  book,  and  sat  in 
the  window,  within  the  curtain,  where  she  could  see 
and  hear  something  of  the  movements  in  the  hall ; 
for  Mr.  Graham's  room  was  in  a  wing  of  the  building, 
extending  back  from  the  main  body  of  the  house. 
The  sash  was  a  little  raised,  and  she  could  distinctly 
hear  the  notes  of  the  piano,  with  the  accompaniment 
of  a  female  voice  of  rare  and  exquisite  melody. 
"  That  must  be  the  beautiful  stranger,"  and  she  was 
right  in  her  conclusion.  It  was  Miss  Devereux,  the 
star  of  the  evening,  the  acknowledged  beauty  of  a 
sister  city,  a  nightingale  in  song,  a  goddess  in  the 
dance,  a  perfect  mirror  of  the  graces.  Female  rivalry 
was  put  aside  in  her  presence,  for  she  distanced  all 
competition.  It  was  no  disgrace  to  yield  the  palm  to 
one  so  pre-eminent ;  it  became  a  matter  of  policy  to 
praise  and  admire  her,  and  for  once,  the  ladies  vied 
with  the  other  sex,  in  their  flatteries  and  attentions. 
She  had  the  peculiar  power  of  conversing  with  half  a 
dozen  gentlemen  at  the  same  time,  and  to  make  each 
believe  that  they  were  particularly  distinguished. 
She  would  keep  a  dozen  more  employed  for  her  at 
the  same  time,  and  each  considered  himself  particu- 
larly honoured.  No  empress  was  more  despotic  in 
her  sway,  yet  she  threw  her  chains  around  her  vassals 


820  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

so  gracefully,  that  they  gloried  in  their  bondage.  If 
Mary  was  so  anxious  to  hear  her  name,  she  had  but 
to  listen  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  where  it 
resounded  from  corner  to  corner  the  whole  evening. 
It  was  "  Miss  Devereux's  glove,"  "  Miss  Devereux's 
fan,"  "  Miss  Devereux's  this,"  and  "  Miss  Devereux's 
that,"  nothing  in  the  world  but  Miss  'Devereux.  It 
was  strange  how  one  woman  could  turn  so  many 
people's  heads  in  one  night,  but  she  was  the  vent,  vidi, 
vici  lady.  It  would  be  difficult  to  count  the  tongues 
employed  the  next  morning  in  discussing  the  merits 
of  her  person,  voice,  dress,  and  manners.  It  is  strange 
indeed,  if  no  flaw  were  discovered  in  the  jewel,  upon 
an  inspection  so  close ;  perhaps  the  microscopic  eye 
of  envy  might  have  done  so;  but  Henry  Graham 
made  no  such  discovery.  Mary  found  him  as  ready 
to  tell  her  all  he  knew  respecting  her,  as  she  was 
eager  to  ask.  He  described  her  as  not  only  the  most 
beautiful  being  he  ever  beheld,  but  the  most  fasci- 
nating ;  he  could  find  no  language  sufficiently  strong 
to  do  justice  to  her;  he  was  obliged  to  speak  in 
ejaculatory  sentences : — "How  superbly  she  dances," 
"how  divinely  she  sings,"  "such  eyes,"  "such  a 
brow,"  "  such  a  glorious  complexion !"  It  is  unne- 
cessary to  repeat  all  the  encomiums  that  were  uttered, 
or  all  that  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  son  said  respecting 
the  evening's  party  or  the  morning's  entertainment. 
The  former  was  delighted,  because  it  had  gone  off  so 
brilliantly,  and  the  latter  that  he  had  been  roused  and 
exalted  into  interest,  and  that  the  demon  of  ennui 
was  charmed  away,  for  that  clay  at  least.  And  so  it 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        321 

was  for  many  days — for  weeks.  There  was  a  constant 
succession  of  parties,  rides,  excursions  of  pleasure,  and 
every  fashionable  pastime  for  the  beautiful  stranger. 
H<xnry  became  fascinated  and  bewitched;  he  could 
talk  of  nothing  else,  till  Mary,  whose  curiosity  was 
completely  satiated,  would  gladly  have  changed  the 
theme.  She  was  unwilling  to  manifest  her  weariness, 
lest  Henry  should  mistake  it  for  envy,  and  she  some- 
times feared  it  was  so.  Gradually,  however,  he  spoke 
of  her  less  and  less,  but  from  his  long  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion, it  was  evident  he  thought  the  more ;  and  Mary 
changing  her  fear,  dreaded  lest  he  should  suffer  him- 
self to  be  lured  by  a  syren  to  works  that  might  wreck' 
his  peace.  She  knew  but  little  of  Miss  Devereux,  but 
she  believed  her  heartless ;  she  could  not  understand 
how  any  one  could  appreciate  the  affections  of  one 
who  accepted  with  smiles,  incense  from  all.  Her 
fears  were  soon  confirmed  by  one  of  those  accidents 
which  reveal  more  of  the  character  in  one  moment, 
than  is  oftentimes  done  in  years. 

There  was  a  long  walk  in  Mrs.  Graham's  garden, 
shaded  on  each  side  by  a  close  hedge,  whither  Mary 
was  wont  to  retreat  for  solitude  and  exercise.  One 
day,  after  enduring  the  martyrdom  of  a  dinner  party, 
whioh  Mrs.  Graham  had  given  in  honour  of  Miss 
Derereux,  after  feeling  the  presence  of  her  beauty, 
till  she  seemed  dazzled  by  its  brilliance,  and  wishing 
most  fervently  that  for  Henry's  sake,  so  superb  a 
temple  might  have  an  indweller  worthy  of  its  fair 
proportions;  she  welcomed  the  moment  which  gave 
the  ladies  liberty  to  retire,  and  sought  her  favourite 
20 


322  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OK,   THE 

sbade.  She  always  chose  the  least  frequented  side 
of  the  hedge,  and  was  walking  there,  absorbed  in 
thought,  with  her  usual  stilly  step,  when  she  heard 
voices  on  the  other  side,  one  of  which  immediately 
arrested  her  attention.  It  was  that  of  Miss  Devereux 
conversing  with  another  young  lady,  probably  a 
bosom  friend. 

"You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  Miss  Devereux  was 
saying;  "I  care  nothing  about  him,  only  as  he  admin- 
isters to  the  gratification  of  the  present  moment;  I 
may  prefer  him  to  any  of  the  fools  around  me  just 
now,  because  he  is  the  handsomest,  and  reported  to 
be  the  richest." 

"Poor  fellow,"  exclaimed  her  companion;  "I  always 
thought  before  you  came,  he  was  cased  in  a  suit  of 
mail,  impenetrable  to  ladies'  attractions;  but  indeed, 
Julia,  you  are  wrong  to  encourage  him  so  much  if 
you  really  mean  to  discard  him." 

"Discard  him!  let  him  give  me  the  opportunity; 
and  be  assured  he  shall — he  will.  I  never  suffer  a 
man  who  has  shown  his  devotion  by  exclusive  atten- 
tions alone,  trying  to  earn  a  right  to  an  acceptance, 
and  to  make  himself  sure  of  it  before  he  is  committed, 
I  never  suffer  such  a  man  to  escape:  I  lead  him  on 
till  I  bring  him  to  my  feet,  and  then  suffer  him  to 
get  up  as  he  can." 

"Supposing  I  undeceive  him,  and  tell  him  what  a 
deep  coquette  you  are!" 

"Do  it — I  defy  you  to  do  itl  and  I  would  stake  my 
life  on  his  incredulity.  The  chains  are  around  him, 
the  rivets  are  fastened,  he  cannot  break  them  now: 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        323 

would  you  know  one  of  the  great  secrets  of  my  power, 
Maria?  They  call  me  handsome:  very  well — perhaps 
I  am  so — but  it  is  this;  in  giving  just  enough  encour- 
agement to  inspire  hope,  and  too  little  to  create  con- 
fidence." 

"Very  well;  but  if  you  ever  mean  to  marry  I  can- 
not conceive  why  you  would  not  accept  him;  he  is 
handsome,  rich,  and  fashionable." 

"It  is  true,  if  I  were  foolish  enough  to  think  of 
falling  in  love,  it  would  be  a  very  good  opportunity, 
but  I  love  my  independence  and  liberty  too  well;  a 
few  years  hence  will  do ;  I  would  not  for  the  autocrat 
of  the  Russias  barter  the  freedom  I  now  enjoy  for 
domestic  thraldom." 

Mary,  compelled  to  be  a  listener  from  her  situation, 
was  indignant  and  amazed.  She  could  not  have  be- 
lieved there  was  so  much  hollo wness  and  art  in  the 
world.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  reading  a  dark  page 
of  the  human  heart,  and  in  her  simplicity  and  sincerity, 
looked  upon  Miss  Devereux  as  little  better  than  a 
murderess.  What!  entice  a  person  with  smiles  and 
graces,  and  kind  glances,  to  lay  his  whole  affections 
at  her  feet,  and  then  spurn  them  !  Mary  shuddered — • 
she  was  but  a  novice  in  the  ways  of  the  world — and 
she  shuddered  still  more  when  she  heard  the  voice  of 
Henry  Graham  accosting  them,  and  the  same  silver 
tones  which  had  just  been  pronouncing  his  doom,  ad- 
dress him  with  such  seductive  softness. 

"What,  a  rose!  Mr.  Graham  offer  me  a  rose!  I 
thank  you ;  but  I  dislike  roses  exceedingly." 

"  Dislike  roses !  impossible." 


324  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"  Very  possible ;  they  are  so  vulgar,  so  glaring  and 
large ;  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  was  ever  named  the 
queen  of  flowers." 

"Unqueen  her  then,  and  suffer  me  to  place  the  dia- 
dem on  the  one  yourself  shall  call  the  fairest." 

"  Excuse  me,  no  queen  of  flowers  for  me ;  they  de- 
serve not  such  honours;  they  are  too  fading,  too 
abundant ;  there  is  vulgarity  in  their  very  profusion  ; 
they  are  a  plebeian  race,  and  I  must  acknowledge  I 
dislike  them  all." 

Henry  spoke  of  a  ride  proposed  for  the  morrow,  and 
hoped  the  sky  would  be  as  blue  and  the  air  as  pleasant, 
it  was  such  a  delightful  excursion,  the  prospect  was  one 
of  the  finest  in  the  world." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Graham,  I  sincerely  think  it  one  of  the 
most  foolish  things  in  nature  to  go  so  far  for  a  little 
amusement.  I  shall  go,  and  I  thank  you  for  starting 
the  idea,  but  how  preposterous  to  ride  so  many  miles 
over  a  dusty  road  and  then  climb  a  steep  rugged  hill, 
leaving  shreds  of  muslin  and  lace  on  every  shrub,  just 
to  admire  a  fine  prospect  and  to  have  the  blessed  priv- 
ilege of  being  weary  I" 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  to  go,  Miss  Devereux,"  con- 
tinued Henry,  "  the  party  will  be  broken  up :  we 
sought  your  pleasure  particularly  in  the  proposition; 
if  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  yourself  suggested 
the  idea." 

When  the  trio  had  again  entered  the  house,  Mary 
glided  along  her  shaded  path,  which  she  could  not  do 
before  without  crossing  theirs,  and  making  them  con- 
scious of  her  previous  vicinity,  rejoicing  for  once  thaV 


JOYS   A.ND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        325 

she  was  not  beautiful,  if  beauty  must  be  accompanied 
with  such  heartless  vanity  and  folly.  Her  mind  was 
absorbed  with  one  thought,  Miss  Devereux  and  the 
painful  disclosure  she  was  compelled  to  make  to  Henry 
Graham,  for  she  deemed  it  a  religious  duty  to  inform 
him  of  the  arts  of  which  he  was  destined  to  be  the 
victim.  She  found  an  early  opportunity  of  being  alone 
with  him ;  she  knew  that  they  were  to  meet  on  the  mor- 
row, and  she  wished  he  should  arm  himself  in  time 
with  the  panoply  of  moral  courage,  to  defy  the  arts 
of  this  insidious  beauty. 

"  Henry,"  said  she,  approaching  the  sofa  on  which 
he  reclined.  She  felt  a  sudden  choking  in  her  throat, 
and  paused  with  the  flush  of  embarrassment  rising  on 
her  pale  cheek. 

"Well,  what  would  you,  Mary?"  making  room  for 
her  by  his  side.  "  What  petition  is  harbingered  by 
that  earnest  look  ?" 

"  None ;  I  have  no  petition  to  make,  merely  simple 
facts  to  state,  which  I  deem  it  my  duty,  however  un- 
pleasant." 

"  Do  not  hesitate ;  speak  openly ;  am  I  not  your 
brother  ?  Address  me  as  such." 

"I  hesitate  because  I  fear  to  give  pain;  I  fear  too 
to  be  associated  in  your  mind  with  painful  emotions." 

"  What  is  it  you  have  to  communicate  ?  Your  eyes 
are  filled  with  tears,  you  breathe  with  difficulty; 
is  it  any  thing  of  Miss  Devereux  ?  Good  heavens ! 
Any  accident  ?  has  the  carriage  been  overturned  ?  is 
she  hurt?  is  she  killed?"  and  Henry  started  upon 
his  feet. 


326  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

"Pray,  compose  yourself:  it  is  of  Miss  Devereux  I 
\vould  speak,  yet  I  am  not  aware  of  any  accident.  I 
have  been  an  unwilling  listener  to-day  to  words  you 
ought_to  hear,  as  they  may,  they  must  affect  the  hap- 
piness of  your  future  life."  Gathering  courage  from 
Henry's  preposterous  alarm,  Mary  faithfully  repeated 
the  cold,  treacherous  dialogue  she  had  over 
Henry  listened  without  any  interruption ;  she  saw  the 
blood  mount  higher  and  higher,  till  it  reached  his 
temples;  he  bit  his  nether  lip  most  ominously :  was  ho 
angry  with  her  or  Miss  Devereux  ?  she  could  not  tell. 
At  last  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with 
long  tragic  steps,  stopping  occasionally  and  applying 
his  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a  force  that  made  Mary 
start.  She  had  never  witnessed  a  lover's  heroics,  and 
was  seriously  alarmed.  Hardly  knowing  what  she 
did,  she  ran  to  him,  and  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  ar- 
rested him  in  his  rapid  movements. 

"  Henry,  dear  Henry !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Do  not 
suffer  yourself  to  be  moved  in  this  manner,  try  to  for- 
get her,  she  is  not  worthy  you  should  give  yourself 
such  suffering  on  her  account." 

Henry  shook  her  from  him  as  if  a  viper  had  clung 
to  him.  Staggered  by  the  violence  of  the  motion,  she 
was  obliged  to  lean  against  the  wall  for  support,  and 
stung  to  the  soul,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  burst  into  tears.  He  stopped,  looked  steadily  at 
her  and  became  very  pale. 

"  Mary,  beware  what  you  are  doing ;  it  is  dangerous 
to  trifle  with  a  man's  passions  when  they  are  roused 
as  mine  are.  I  cannot  believe  her  such  a  hypocrite: 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OP  AMERICAN   LIFE.        327 

deceit  never  was  enshrined  in  such  a  form ;  were  an 
angel  to  tell  me  that  she  did  not  love  me,  I  would  not 
believe  it." 

"  You  think  me  then  capable  of  falsehood  ?" 

"I  think  you  have  misunderstood  and  misinter- 
preted playful  and  innocent  language.  You  know 
nothing  of  the  world :  what  woman  of  spirit  will 
acknowledge  her  affection  for  another,  especially  to  a 
female  friend  ?  I  would  not  wound  your  feelings,  I 
may  have  been  too  hasty,  you  always  act  from  a  sense 
of  right,  but,  Mary,  you  know  but  little  of  love." 

Mary's  tears  were  checked,  the  sense  of  deep  in- 
justice and  ingratitude  supplied  her  with  dignity  to 
bear  her  up  above  her  wounded  sensibility.  Her  mild 
eye  lit  up  with  a  burning  ray,  her  cheek  glowed  with 
living  crimson,  she  seemed  transformed ;  never  before 
had  her  countenance  beamed  with  such  an  expression ; 
it  imparted  power  and  beauty  to  her  face.  Henry 
caught  it,  and  it  had  upon  him  the  momentary  effect 
of  fascination.  Though  the  tide  of  exalted  feeling 
soon  rolled  back,  effacing  for  the  time  every  im- 
pression but  one,  in  after  hours  of  darkness  and 
despondency,  the  recollection  of  this  flashing  out  of 
the  heart  and  soul  came  to  him  as  the  torch,  lighting 
up  the  gloom  of  a  mine :  Mary  moved  to  the  door  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  My  errand  is  done,"  said  she ;  "  how  painful  a  one 
it  has  been,  is  useless  tor  me  to  say.  Had  I  known 
the  manner  in  which  it  would  be  received,  I  might 
have  lingered  longer ;  but  it  is  better  as  it  is ;  I  have 
done  what  truth  and  friendship  required,  and  it  is 


328  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

enough.  Grateful  friendship,  I  ought  to  say,  for  when 
dejected,  oppressed,  and  unappreciated  by  others, 
every  fountain  of  joy  sealed  up,  you  came  with  sym- 
pathy and  kindness  on  your  lips  and  in  your  heart, 
and  the  living  waters  once  more  gladdened  the  desert 
of  my  life.  From  that  hour  gratitude  to  yourself  and 
father  have  been  a  strong  vital  principle  within  me. 
Simple,  inexperienced  girl  as  I  am,  I  know  you  better 
than  the  world  does,  and  I  have  the  boldness  now  to 
utter  it:  while  the  flatterers  of  your  fortune  deem, 
you  the  mere  indolent  devotee  of  fashion,  I  have  seen 
a  depth  of  feeling  and  vigour  of  intellect  that  shamed 
the  worldly  bondage  to  which  it  submitted.  That 
feeling  and  intellect  will  yet  work  out  deliverance 
and  triumph ;  you  will  hereafter  do  me  justice." 

Henry  looked  after  her  as  she  closed  the  door,  as 
Amarath  did  upon  the  genius  Syndaria  when  he  had 
encircled  her  finger  with  the  magic  ring.  lie  felt  the 
power  and  purity  of  truth,  and  his  conscience  up- 
braided him  for  the  ungracious  manner  in  which  he 
had  met  the  admonition  of  his  friend.  Then  again  his 
imagination  delineated  the  goddess  form  of  Miss 
Devereux,  the  darkness  of  "  her  oriental  eye"  swam 
before  his  gaze :  he  thought  of  her  houri  smile,  and 
convinced  himself  that  she  was  all  that  was  excellent 
as  well  as  all  that  was  fair;  Mary's  fastidious  ideas  of 
rectitude  had  been  needlessly  alarmed,  and  had  con- 
verted a  little  badinage  and  evasion  into  moral  turpi- 
tude. He  attended  the  riding  party  the  following  day; 
Mrs.  Graham  was  also  there  in  high  spirits;  Mary  re- 
mained, as  usual,  by  the  couch  of  Mr.  Graham. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        329 

The  house  was  almost  deserted ;  the  servants,  as  a 
reward  for  the  many  extra  services  required  of  them 
during  such  a  succession  of  parties,  were  enjoying  a 
holiday.  Every  room  in  the  usually  gay  mansion 
was  as  still  as  the  sick  chamber  where  Mary  kept  her 
unwearied  vigils. 

"Mary,  my  dear,"  said  the  invalid — in  a  moment 
she  was  bending  over  him,  "place  these  pillows  be- 
hind me,  and  draw  back  that  curtain,  so  that  I  may 
feel  the  west  wind  through  the  slats ;  I  feel  better  than 
I  have^  for  many  days,  I  can  breathe  more  freely. 
Do  you  remember  a  promised  communication  you 
were  to  hear  when  I  could  summon  sufficient  strength 
and  resolution?  I  dare  not  defer  it  longer;  some- 
thing warns  me  to  finish  all  I  have  to  do  on  earth,  for 
I  shall  soon  rest  on  a  pillow  where  your  kind  hands, 
my  Mary,  can  never  reach  me  more.  Give  me  a  glass 
of  that  cordial  and  draw  your  chair  still  closer,  and 
now  let  me  begin  before  this  glow  has  left  my 
frame." 

Mary  had  not  forgotten  what  he  had  once  said  to 
her  on  this  subject.  Her  curiosity  had  been  excited 
and  interested,  but  now  the  moment  had  arrived  when 
it  was  to  be  gratified,  she  shrunk  with  awe  and  mis- 
giving from  the  mysterious  communication.  She 
gazed  with  solemn  interest  on  the  aged  speaker, 
whose  sunken  eyes  were  turned  on  her  with  a  look  of 
intense  and  prophetic  meaning. 

"Mary,  if  I  had  strength  to  relate  to  you  the  his- 
tory of  my  life,  you  would  wonder  what  strong  pas- 
sions had  warred  in  this  now  wasted  frame.  I  cannot 


330  COURTSHIP  AXD  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

go  back  to  my  youth,  I  will  not  even  revert  to  my 
prime  of  manhood;  it  was  passed  before  I  became  a 
married  man.  When  I  tell  you  that  never  heart  of 
mortal  was  more  bound  up  in  visions  of  home  and 
domestic  joy,  that  I  centred  in  it  all  my  affection, 
care,  wealth,  and  happiness;  when  you  see  how  my 
affection  has  been  repaid,  my  cares  returned,  my 
wealth  dissipated,  my  happiness  disregarded — oh!  my 
child,  I  am  a  dying  old  man,  and  ought  to  wrestle  no 
longer  with  the  dark  spirits  of  this  world,  but  when  I 
think  of  the  folly,  the  recklessness,  the  hard-hearted- 
ness  of  those  from  whom  I  had  a  right  to  expect  pity, 
kindness,  and  love,  the  blood  of  nearly  seventy  years 
burns  in  my  chilled  veins." 

"Oh!  forbear,  sir,  you  are  flushed,  you  are  feverish, 
you  cannot  bear  this  exertion." 

"Interrupt  me  not  when  I  have  so  much  to  say, 
such  uncertain  breath  to  utter  it.  I  said  I  had  centred 
all  my  wealth  in  my  home;  I  was  wrong;  when  my 
son  was  about  sixteen, — unfortunate  boy,  left  exposed 
to  such  pernicious  influences, — I  was  called  to  Europe 
upon  commercial  business  of  great  importance:  dur- 
ing my  residence  there,  some  fortunate  speculation, 
which  it  is  unnecessary  to  detail,  became  to  me  a  source 
of  immense  wealth.  When  I  returned,  and  learned 
the  extravagant  career  my  wife  had  run,  her  bound- 
less ambition  to  be  first  in  every  idle  expenditure, 
I  resolved  to  make  a  secret  of  my  newly  acquired 
riches,  and  vowed  to  hoard  it,  that  my  son,  whom  she 
was  training  as  her  disciple,  might  have  an  inherit- 
ance secure  from  her  dissipation.  I  might  have 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        331 

secured  it  to  him  by  law,  but  I  had  another  object  in 
view:  I  had  a  lesson  to  teach  them  both,  a  lesson  they 
are  yet  bitterly  to  learn.  I  love  my  son,  nature  has 
gifted  him  with  noble  qualities,  and  had  not  heaven 
prostrated  me  upon  this  sick  bed  at  the  time  I  was 
most  anxious  to  direct  his  education,  he  might  have 
been  a  man;  but  left  to  the  uncontrolled  influence  of 
such  a  mother,  is  it  strange  that  he  has  lost  the  nobil- 
ity of  nature?  Interrupt  me  not,  my  own  dear  Mary; 
my  story  yet  remains  to  be  told.  Upon  my  return 
this  mansion  was  vacated ;  though  only  a  few  miles 
from  the  city,  it  was  too  retired  in  winter  for  Mrs. 
Graham's  gay  propensities.  I  brought  with  me, 
from  Europe,  a  young  man,  in  the  capacity  of  a  ser- 
vant, though  his  object  was  to  come  over  to  this 
country  and  find  employment  as  a  carpenter,  being  a 
poor  but  very  ingenious  mechanic.  He  came  with 
me  to  this  place,  then  deserted  of  its  inmates;  I 
brought  him  into  this  very  room,  I  locked  him  within 
it  till  he  had  completed  the  work  I  had  appointed  him 
to  do.  He  finished  his  task;  bound  by  an  oath  of 
secrecy,  he  received  the  stipulated  sum,  left  me  and 
died  soon  after  of  a  sudden  disease.  No  being  but 
myself  knows  the  work  he  wrought." 

He  paused  from  exhaustion,  nor  could  he  forbear  to 
smile  at  the  wild  expression  of  Mary's  countenance  as 
she  glanced  round  the  room,  almost  expecting  to  see 
supernatural  beings  issue  from  the  walls. 

"  There  is  nothing  here  to  harm  you,  Mary,"  con- 
tinued he,  after  a  pause ;  "  I  employed  no  unholy 
means;  my  journeyman  laboured  after  a  European 


832  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

model.  Now  rise,  my  child,  bolt  both  doors,  that  no 
one  may  eater  unawares ;  you  cannot  draw  the  bolts 
with  such  a  trembling  hand ;  there,  that  is  a  little 
steadier.  Now  walk  to  the  fire-place  and  press  firmly 
with  a  downward  motion  against  the  lower  pannel,  the 
right  side  of  the  chimney;  a  little  lower,  firmer, 
harder ;  harder  yet." 

Mary  obeyed  the  directions,  bewildered  and  fright- 
ened at  finding  herself  such  a  mysterious  agent.  The 
pannel  suddenly  slid,  and  a  small  secret  closet  was 
revealed. 

"  Mary,  hand  me  the  casket  within  that  closet." 

The  heavy  casket  was  placed  on  his  bed ;  he  drew 
from  his  bosom  a  small  key,  which  was  suspended 
from  his  neck  by  a  chain,  and  bidding  Mary  unfasten 
the  hasp,  he  immediately  clasped  it  around  her  own. 
"And  now,  Mary,"  said  he,  with  a  more  solemn, 
deeper  accent,  "  you  are  in  possession  of  the  key  that 
unlocks  that  foreign  treasure  I  have  so  long  secured 
from  the  unprincipled  waste  of  wealth;  hide  it  in 
your  bosom,  let  not  even  the  chain  be  visible,  guard 
it  as  the  bequest  of  a  dying  man,  who  is  about  to  be- 
queath you  a  more  sacred  legacy  still." 

Mary  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  bed-side  and  clasped 
his  hands  imploringly  in  hers.  "Do  not,  do  not,  I 
entreat  you,  sir,  bequeath  this  gold  to  me.  It  would 
weigh  me  down  to  the  dust;  this  chain  even  now 
seems  a  string  of  fire*  around  my  neck.  Your  son, 
your  son,  the  wealth  is  his,  who  is  so  fitting  to  receive 
it  from  your  hands ;  he  is  worthy  of  your  trust,  ho 
will  not  abuse  it." 


JOYS  AND  SORRC/WS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        833 

The  sick  man  raised  his  feeble  body  with  an  energy 
that  appalled  her.  "  It  is  for  the  sake  of  that  son,  that 
now  degenerate  boy,  I  leave  this  in  your  immediate 
keeping.  Within  this  casket  is  a  letter  to  Henry,  ex- 
plaining to  him  all  my  wishes:  put  it  back  in  the 
recess,  replace  the  pannel  and  unbolt  the  doors.  Ap- 
proach me  once  more,  and  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
your  eyes  lifted  to  heaven,  promise  to  obey  me  in 
my  last  directions,  and  my  soul  shall  bless  you  in  its 
parting  hour." 

Subdued  and  awe-stricken,  Mary  lifted  her  tearful 
eyes  and  faltered  out  the  promise  he  exacted. 

"It  is  enough;  the  lips  of  truth  have  vowed,  and 
the  vow  will  never  be  broken.  When  I  am  gone  my 
estate  will  be  involved  in  irremediable  ruin;  I  have 
long  foreseen  this  would  be  the  result  of  such  bound- 
less extravagance.  I  have  long  since  ceased  to  warn, 
for  my  unhappy  son  needs  the  lesson  in  store;  ad- 
versity alone  will  rouse  him  from  his  mental  and 
moral  lethargy;  let  him  but  once  be  forced  to  call  his 
powers  into  exercise  by  commanding  necessity,  and 
they  will  come  like  a  legion  of  angels  to  his  help  in 
the  hour  of  need ;  let  him  become  poor,  flatterers  will 
desert  him,  beauty  will  slight  him,  he  will  turn  from 
the  hollow  world  and  be  regenerated.  He  must  go 
through  this  stormy  ordeal,  and  then,  when  all  the 
dross  is  removed,  when  he  stands  unalloyed  and  firm 
on  the  independent  basis  of  his  own  character,  and  not 
till  then,  may  this  casket,  from  whose  contents  you 
have  in  the  mean  time  derived  your  own  support,  be 
committed  into  his  keeping." 


334  COURTSHIP   AND    MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

"  But  should  the  lesson  fail,  should  ho  sink  into  de- 
spondency and  inaction,  once  inure  I  entreat " 

"You  have  promised,  entreaties  are  vain;  if  the 
lesson  should  fail,  he  merits  it  not,  and  I  leave  it  in 
worthier  hands.  You  have  been  to  me  like  the  reno- 
vated spirit  of  my  own  youth;  to  you  I  look  for  every 
thing  that  remains  of  my  comfort  and  support.  I  feel 
a  faith,  strong  as  that  inspired  by  prophecy,  that  my 
son  will  shake  the  dust  from  his  spirit  and  put  on  the 
beautiful  garments  of  true  manhood:  you  will  not 
always  remain  the  guardian  of  this  treasure.  As  for 
her,  who  has  alienated  herself  from  me  from  the  hour 
she  became  &  bride,  who  has  neglected  me  for  long 
years  on  my  sick  bed,  left  me  to  the  care  of  hirelings 
till  God  in  his  mercy  sent  me  a  loving  and  tender 
daughter  in  you,  the  time  is  to  come,  and  soon,  when 
she  will  cling  to  the  reeds  of  fortune  and  find  them 
break  in  her  grasp;  when,  deserted  by  seeming  friends, 
she  will  feel  the  horrors  of  solitude  and  remember  me  ; 
let  repentance  be  her  dowry." 

The  voice  of  the  sick  man  assumed  a  tone  alarm- 
ingly hollow  as  he  uttered  the  last  words.  His  head 
sank  back  heavily  on  Mary's  shoulder,  who  gazing  in 
his  face,  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  glassy 
stare.  Though  she  felt  a  dreadful  conviction  that  the 
effort  he  bad  just  made  had  exhausted  the  strength  of 
life,  and  that  he  was  sinking  at  once,  now  the  moment 
of  excitement  was  passed,  she  did  not  lose  her  pre- 
sence of  mind.  She  laid  him  back  on  the  pillow,  and 
bathed  his  temples  and  face  with  the  restorative 
waters,  with  which  the  chamber  wras  supplied ;  she 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        335 

chafed  his  cold  hands,  but  the  features  remained  rigid, 
the  eyes  moved  not  in  answer  to  her  fearful  glance. 
She  recollected  that  one  waiting  maid  had  been  or- 
dered to  remain  behind,  and,  ringing  the  bell  till  the 
girl  ran  in,  she  immediately  despatched  her  for  the 
physician.  "When  he  arrived  and  took  the  patient's 
hand,  it  fell  like  lead  on  the  bed-side.  His  skill  availed 
him  nothing  here — he  was  dead. 

Mary  now  felt  an  awful  responsibility  resting  upon, 
her,  rendered  doubly  solemn  by  the  instantaneous 
death  of  him  who  had  entrusted  it — the  delegated 
guardian  of  Henry's  wealth  and  fame — the  repository 
of  a  secret  so  strange  as  almost  to  baffle  credulity. 
Mary  felt  all  this,  till  she  sank  down  in  the  hopeless- 
ness of  despair:  but  even  in  this  first  hour  of  despair, 
she  prayed  that  she  might  be  strengthened  by  Him, 
who  himself  prayed,  when  bowed  by  more  than  mor- 
tal agonies;  and  the  hope,  the  conviction  that  the  son 
would  be  regenerated  over  the  ashes  of  the  father, 
came  like  the  wing  of  an  angel  hovering  over  the  gloom. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  shocked,  excessively  shocked,  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  event.  She  shrieked  and  even 
fainted,  when,  on  her  return  from  the  party,  she  found 
herself  standing  by  the  shrouded  body  of  her  husband, 
by  the  side  of  which  Mary  sat  in  the  immobility  of 
sorrow:  she  was  reminded  of  her  own  mortality;  the 
chill  atmosphere  of  death  oppressed  and  appalled  her. 
The  conviction  that  the  gay,  glittering  life  she  was 
leading  was  nothing  but  a  passage  to  the  grave,  the 
cold,  deep,  lonely  grave,  came  over  her  heavily  and 
suddenly. 


386  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

Henry's  grief  was  sincere.  The  poignancy  of  self- 
reproach  added  intolerable  stings  to  filial  affliction. 
"While  he  had  been  engaged  in  selfish  amusement, 
administering  to  the  pleasures  of  an  adulated  beauty, 
given  up  to  high  and  unhealthy  excitement,  the  irre- 
proachable Mary  had  clung  to  the  anchor  of  duty — 
sustained  his  father's  dying  agonies  and  received  his 
parting  breath. 

It  was  after  every  thing  had  subsided  into  the 
stillness  of  gloom,  which  succeeds  such  startling 
events,  that  Mary,  whose  energies  of  mind  were 
now  called  into  vigorous  exercise  by  the  responsi- 
bilities which  had  so  mysteriously  devolved  upon 
her,  endeavoured  to  extend  that  influence  over  the 
mind  of  Henry,  which  true  moral  excellence  and 
modest,  intellectual  strength  always  give  its  pos- 
sessor. Conscious  of  the  reverse  of  fortune  that 
awaited  him,  she  tried  to  arouse  his  ambition  by 
the  purest  and  most  exalted  motives.  She  related 
the  conversations  she  had  often  had  with  his  father, 
when  left  alone  with  him  in  his  sickness,  in  which 
he  deplored  the  indolence  of  character,  which  per- 
mitted the  most  brilliant  attributes  of  mind  to  re- 
main mouldering  in  inaction.  She  told  of  the  dreams 
in  which  he  sometimes  indulged,  of  loving  to  see 
the  son  of  his  hopes  sitting  in  the  high  places  of 
the  land,  swaying  the  multitude  by  his  eloquence, 
watching  over  insulted  laws,  and  avenging  outraged 
humanity. 

With  a  heart  softened  by  sorrow,  a  conscience 
enlightened  by  the  same  salutary  counsel,  Henry 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        337 

listened  as  to  his  better  angel,  and  made  the  most 
ardent  resolutions  for  the  future. 

Without  entering  into  tedious  and  unprofitable 
details,  it  may  be  said  here  that  Mr.  Graham's  ex- 
ecutor found  that  he  had.  died  insolvent;  that  the 
consternation  of  the  widow  was  unutterable,  and  the 
wonder  and  sympathy  of  her  innumerable  friends, 
as  sincere  and-  valuable  as  they  usually  are  on  such 
occasions.  Mulberry  Grove,  the  beautiful  and  stately 
mansion,  was  to  be  sold.  Mrs.  Graham  was  to  take 
private  lodgings  in  the  city;  her  son  was  going  on 
a  European  tour,  and  Mary  was  to  return  to  the 
obscurity  of  her  native  village.  Such  were  the  on- 
dits  of  the  world  of  fashion. 

Among  those  who  came  to  pay  visits  of  condo- 
lence, after  the  knowledge  of  their  worst  misfortune, 
were  Miss  Devereux  and  her  inseparable  friend. 
She  was  on  the  eve  of  her  departure  to  her  native 
city,  and  mingled  her  expressions  of  sympathy  for 
her  friends,  with  the  warmest  words  of  gratitude 
for  their  attentions.  She  wanted  to  walk  once  more 
in  that  beautiful  garden,  which  she  should  always 
remember  as  a  model  of  the  blended  loveliness  of 
nature  and  art.  In  the  course  of  their  walk,  she 
managed  so  skilfully  as  to  separate  herself  from 
her  companion,  and  to  be  alone  with  Henry  by  the 
hedge.  This  accomplished  coquette  had  no  thought 
of  departing  with  the  glory  of  her  conquest  unac- 
knowledged. Though  his  fallen  fortunes  rendered 
it  of  less  consequence,  his  name  was  to  be  added 
to  the  number  of  her  victims;  for  her  ambition 
21 


338  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

stopped  not  at  less  than  a  hecatomb.  The  opportunity 
was  irresistible;  the  temptation  equally  so.  The  sym- 
pathy she  had  assumed  diffused  a  captivating  softness 
over  the  lustre  of  her  beauty,  and  there  was  an  abandon- 
ment, an  abstraction  in  her  manner,  that  might  have 
given  encouragement  to  a  bolder  lover.  The  declara- 
tion was  made:  it  was  a  pouring  out  of  the  whole 
heart  and  soul,  with  all  the  generous  fervour  of  a 
first  acknowledged  attachment:  as  Miss  Devoreux 
afterwards  told  her  confident,  "it  was  the  most 
graceful,  impassioned,  and  heroic  declaration  she  had 
ever  received,  and  had  she  not  been  informed  about 
his  loss  of  wealth,  she  was  afraid  she  might  have 
been  foolish  enough  to  have  consented."  She  heard 
him  in  silence,  with  downcast  eyes,  from  which 
rays  of  gratified  vanity  were  brightly  stealing.  She 
then  drew  back  with  the  air  of  a  queen,  who  is 
about  to  reject  the  petition  of  a  vassal;  was  greatly 
surprised  and  distressed;  she  had  never  imagined 
the  existence  of  such  feelings  on  his  part;  uttered 
some  cold  words  about  friendship  and  esteem,  cour- 
tesied  gracefully,  and  moved  towards  the  house, 
leaving  Henry  to  reflections  we  have  no  wish  to 
describe.  The  greatest  kindness  we  can  offer  to  a 
man  of  real  and  deep  sensibility,  who  first  discovers 
he  has  been  the  dupe  of  heartless  vanity,  is  to  "leave 
him  to  himself." 

It  was  that  very  night,  when  the  family  had  retired 
to  rest,  and  the  whole  household  in  the  quiet  attendant 
on  that  lonely  hour,  Mary  left  the  room,  bearing  in 
her  hand  a  feeble  lamp,  and  directed  her  steps  to  the 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        339 

chamber  lately  occupied  by  Mr.  Graham.  She  had 
formed  the  resolution  of  going  back  to  the  scenes  o« 
her  childhood,  in  the  midst  of  her  mother's  friends, 
and  supporting  herself  by  the  exercise  of  her  talents. 
She  could  teach  a  school ;  she  was  confident  she  could 
gain  a  subsistence.  Nothing  would  induce  her  to 
remain  an  incumbent  on  Mrs.  Graham.  As  the  estate 
was  to  be  sold,  Mary  deemed  it  her  first  duty  to  take 
possession  of  the  treasure,  of  which  she  was  made  the 
reluctant  guardian.  Notwithstanding  the  sacredness 
of  the  charge,  and  the  uprightness  of  her  own  prin- 
ciples, she  trembled,  and  drew  her  breath  quickly  and 
short,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  an  apartment  so 
lately  solemnized  by  the  awful  presence  of  death, 
surrounded  by  the  dim  shadow  of  midnight,  secret 
and  alone.  Notwithstanding  her  cautious  movements, 
the  wind,  which  blew  with  a  strong  current  through 
the  long  hall,  pressed  against  the  door  with  such  force 
that  it  eluded  her  grasp,  and  closed  with  a  noise 
which  almost  terrified  her  from  her  purpose.  Sick  at 
heart,  she  sat  down  in  the  easy  chair,  which,  but  a 
little  while  before,  she  had  seen  occupied  by  the 
venerable  form  now  covered  with  the  mould  of  the 
grave.  She  lived  over  the  last,  impressive  scene, 
heard  again  the  solemn  adjurations  of  paternal 
anguish,  and  her  resolution  became  strengthened  for 
the  task.  She  rose — put  down  her  lamp — pressed  the 
secret  door — drew  forth  the  casket — replaced  the 
panel,  and  lifting  up  the  lamp,  was  turning  towards 
the  door,  when  the  opposite  one  slowly  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Graham  stood  before  her.  Mary  uttered  a  faint 


340  COURTSHIP  AND   MABIUAGE;   OR,  THE 

shriek,  the  lamp  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  she  re- 
mained gazing  on  the  apparition  without  the  power 
of  speech  or  motion. 

"  What  is  your  business  here  ?"  at  length  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Graham,  her  eye  fixed  as  if  by  fascination  on  the 
casket — rushing  towards  her  with  exasperation  in 
every  feature. 

"  I  came  on  an  errand  of  duty,"  faltered  Mary,  with 
bloodless  lips. 

"  And  that  casket,  how  came  it  in  your  possession  ? 
Am  I  to  be  plundered  in  my  own  household,  by  one 
whom  my  bounty  has  fed?  Give  it  me  this  instant 
for  your  life." 

Mary  grasped  it  to  her  bosom  with  convulsive 
agony,  yet  with  a  resolution  as  firm  as  that  with 
which  the  martyr  clings  to  the  cross,  for  which  he  is 
yielding  up  his  life. 

"J)o  you  dare  defy  me  thus?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Graham,  seizing  her  arm,  and  shaking  her  with  deliri- 
ous force.  "  I'll  rouse  every  servant  in  the  household — 
minion — thief!" 

"  By  the  soul  of  the  sainted  dead,  I  am  innocent  1" 
cried  Mary,  emboldened  by  the  consciousness  of  her 
own  innocence,  and  the  sacred  guardianship  to  which 
slie  had  been  elected.  "Touch  not  this,  Mrs.  Graham, 
as  you  would  rest  in  your  own  dying  hour.  It  wa.s 
intrusted  to  me  by  your  husband,  with  his  last  breath. 
I  vowed  to  guard  it  till  the  hour  appointed.  Let  not 
the  curse  of  perjury  rest  upon  me.  Incur  not  the 
wrath  of  Heaven  by  disregarding  the  wishes,  the  com- 
mands of  the  dead." 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        341 

Mrs.  Graham  was  not  in  a  situation  to  listen  to  any 
appeal.  She  had  been  kept  awake  by  an  acute  nervous 
affection,  which  she  had  in  vain  endeavoured  to  soothe. 
Her  indignation  was  boundless,  her  purpose  immove- 
able.  Her  hands  seized  the  casket,  which  Mary 
vainly  struggled  to  retain.  Mrs.  Graham  was  a  tall, 
stately,  strong  woman ;  Mary  a  slender  girl,  with 
feeble  muscles,  that  relaxed  at  last  in  the  powerful 
grasp  that  held  her. 

"Oh!  Henry,  Henry!"  shrieked  the  unfortunate 
girl,  "  where  art  thou  ?" 

Mrs.  Graham  burst  into  a  convulsive  laugh,  and 
held  the  casket  in  her  right  hand,  extended  over  the 
victim  now  prostrate  at  her  feet. 

At  that  moment,  as  if  Providence  had  marked  out 
that  night  for  its  own  particular  purpose,  the  door  was 
thrown  back  by  a  sudden  motion,  and  Henry  Graham 
stood  before  them.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  a 
rejected  man  thought  of  slumber ;  it  is  certain  he  had 
not,  but,  racked  by  feelings  that  maddened  him,  he  had 
walked  his  own  room  like  a  restless  ghost,  till  Mary'a 
shrill  cry  of  agony,  issuing  from  the  chamber  of  death, 
pierced  his  ear,  and  brought  him  to  the  scene  on  which 
he  now  gazed  in  unutterable  amazement.  The  majestic 
figure  of  his  mother,  in  her  white  night-dress,  and  long 
black  locks  tha$,  loosened  in  the  struggle,  streamed 
back  from  her  brow,  with  uplifted  arm,  holding  a 
glittering  casket,  standing  over  the  pale  and  prostrate 
Mary,  in  that  chamber  where  the  shadows  of  death 
still  lingered,  suddenly  confronted  him. 


842  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE  ;   OR,   THE 

"  Gracious  Heavens  I  what  does  this  mean  ?"  asked 
Henry. 

"TVhat  does  it  mean?"  repeated  Mrs.  Graham, 
dragging  Mary  forward  with  one  hand,  while  she 
shook  the  casket  in  the  other;  "it  means  that  this 
girl  is  a  wretch,  a  plunderer,  who  steals  in  the  silence 
of  midnight  to  rifle  your  father's  coffers,  and  rob  you 
of  your  inheritance." 

"Impossible,  impossible!"  exclaimed  Henry.  "Rise, 
Mary,  rise  and  vindicate  yourself  from  a  charge  so 
black." 

The  generous  and  devoted  girl,  even  in  the  moment 
of  despair,  thought  not  of  herself,  but  him.  She  hailed 
his  sudden  appearance  as  a  direct  interposition  of 
Heaven,  in  vindication  of  his  rights.  Freeing  herself 
from  Mrs.  Graham's  now  relaxing  grasp,  she  clung  to 
Henry  with  frantic  energy. 

"  Oh !  Henry,  think  not  of  me,  but  of  yourself. 
That  casket  is  yours ;  your  father  gave  it  in  my  keep- 
ing in  his  last  hour.  He  resisted  my  prayers  and 
tears  that  I  might  be  spared  such  a  trust.  He  made 
me  swear  by  the  Heaven  that  now  hears  me,  to  be 
true  to  the  charge,  to  keep  it,  to  cherish  it,  till  adver- 
sity, unknown  before,  had  called  out  the  heaven-born 
energies  within  you.  It  was  for  your  sake  he  has 
secreted  this  wealth  for  years.  It  was  for  your  sake 
he  committed  it  first  to  these  feeble  hands.  He  has 
left  with  it  a  letter,  expressing  to  you  all  his  wishes 
and  Bis  hopes.  On  the  eve  of  returning  to  the  ob- 
scurity of  my  own  lot,  obedient  to  the  commands  of 
the  dead,  I  sought  this  chamber  and  took  possession 


JOYS  AWT)  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        343 

of  that  fatal  treasure.  Oh !  that  he  had  left  it  in  other 
hands  than  mine !" 

Henry,  at  that  moment,  would  as  soon  have  doubted 
the  evidence  of  truth  itself,  as  the  words  of  Mary. 
Free  from  the  spell  which  had  lately  enthralled  his 
faculties  and  dimmed  his  perception  of  right  and 
wrong,  he  saw  Mary's  character  in  its  own  pure,  ex- 
alted light.  Throwing  one  arm  around  her,  as  if  to 
shield  her  from  the  storm  that  had  just  swept  her 
down,  he  turned  to  his  mother,  with  the  respect 
of  a  son,  but  the  authority  of  a  man,  in  his  voice  and 
manner : 

"  My  mother,  woe  be  unto  those  who  break  the 
commands  that  death  has  hallowed.  By  all  that  is 
sacred,  I  entreat  you  to  restore  what  I  must  say,  you 
have  most  unjustly  assumed." 

The  conscience  of  Mrs.  Graham  had  convinced  her, 
as  she  listened  to  Mary's  explanation,  that  she  had 
shamefully  wronged  her,  but  her  pride  refused  to 
yield  to  its  convictions. 

•'No!"  said  Mary,  "I  never  can  resume  its  guardian- 
ship. Destiny  has  interposed  to  save  me  from  this 
oppressive  responsibility.  Into  your  hands  I  now  com- 
mit what  Heaven  has  willed  I  should  not  retain. 
Here  is  the  key,  which  your  father  suspended  round 
my  neck  with  his  own  hands.  It  was  the  last  office 
they  ever  performed :  almost  the  last  words  he  ever 
uttered,  was  a  prophecy  of  the  future  glory  of  your  man- 
hood. Oh!  Henry,  fulfil  that  dying  prophecy,  and  it 
matters  not  who  keeps  the  gold,  which  is  but  dust  in 
the  balance  of  such  a  reputation." 


344  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

Henry  took  the  casket  from  his  mother's  unresist- 
ing hand,  knelt  down  and  opened  it  in  silence.  He 
stopped  not  to  count  the  gold,  or  to  ascertain  its  im- 
mense value,  but  drawing  out  the  paper  directed  to 
himself,  closed  it  again,  and  gave  it  back  to  his 
mother. 

"I  have  taken  all  I  shall  ever  claim.  Mother,  this 
is  yours,  take  it,  and  use  it  as  you  will.  Mary  is 
right  in  declining  to  receive  it,  and  as  for  myself,  I 
will  read  the  stern  lesson  my  father  willed  that  I 
should  learn.  Nay,  I  will  not  keep  it;  I  will  earn  my 
fortune,  or  be  a  poor  man  to  the  last  day  of  my  life." 

Mrs.  Graham  refused  and  reasoned,  but  at  last  con- 
vinced herself  that  a  mother  was  the' most  fitting  per- 
son to  be  the  guardian  of  her  son's  property.  She 
would  not  consent  to  it  but  from  that  conviction. 
She  condescended  to  ask  Mary  to  forget  the  occur- 
rence of  the  night,  and  to  look  upon  her  as  she  had 
ever  done,  considering  her  house,  wherever  it  might 
be,  as  her  home.  But  Mary,  while  she  expressed 
gratitude  for  the  offer  and  for  past  kindness,  declared 
it  her  earnest  wish  to  return  to  the  village  where  she 
was  born,  mid  scenes  more  congenial  to  her  taste. 
Henry  did  not  oppose  this  resolution.  He  respected 
the  motive  too  highly,  and  her  honour,  her  happiness 
would  be  promoted  by  the  change. 

It  was  a  source  of  speculation,  of  surprise,  when  it 
svas  made  known  to  the  world,  soon  after  this  event- 
ful night,  that  Mulberry  Grove  was  not  to  pass  from 
the  possession  of  its  owners.  Mrs.  Graham  did  not 
retrench  her  expenses,  and  of  course  the  number  of 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        845 

her  friends  and  flatterers  remained  undiminishcd.  Tho 
removal  of  so  humble  and  unpretending  a  being  as 
Mary,  was  a  matter  of  too  little  importance  to  excite 
observation,  but  when  it  was  ascertained  beyond  a 
doubt,  that  the  indolent  and  fashionable  Henry  Gra- 
ham was  become  an  indefatigable  student  of  that  pro- 
fession which  he  had  before  only  nominally  embraced; 
when  he  was  at  length  seen  at  the  bar,  in  eloquence 
and  power,  pleading  for  injured  innocence  or  violated 
right,  then  the  world  did  indeed  marvel  at  the  trans- 
formation, and  talk  of  it  as  a  modern  miracle. 

We  will  pass  over  the  events  of  the  following  year. 
They  may  be  understood  from  one  scene  which  took 

place  in  the  little  village  of ,  at  the  close  of  a 

summer  day.  A  group  of  gay,  neatly  dressed  little 
girls  were  running  merrily  from  the  door  of  a  low 
isolated  building  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  green 
common.  The  sun-bonnets  thrown  recklessly  back, 
the  satchels  swinging  from  their  arms,  the  unbounded 
gaiety  of  their  motions,  all  spoke  "the  playful  children 
just  let  loose  from  school."  A  gentleman,  who  seem- 
ed to  be  a  traveller,  from  the  thick  riding-dress  he 
wore,  on  so  mild  a  day,  accosted  one  of  the  eldest 
children  in  that  tone  of  habitual  gentleness  and 
courtesy,  that  even  untaught  children  know  how  to 
appreciate.  He  asked  if  they  were  returning  from 
school.  An  affirmative  accompanied  by  a  low  courtesy, 
was  the  reply.  "The  name  of  the  school- mistress?" 
"  Mary  Hawthorne — yonder  she  comes ;"  and  the  affec- 
tionate child  ran  to  her  beloved  instructress,  to 
announce  the  approach  of  the  stranger.  But  Mary's 


346  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

eye  needed  not  the  annunciation.  She  had  recognized 
the  well-known  form  of  Henry  Graham,  and  the  next 
moment  her  hand  was  in  his. 

"  Mary  Hawthorne !"  For  eighteen  months  she  had 
not  heard  his  voice.  Past  scenes  rushed  to  her  recol- 
lection, and  joy  and  exultation  swelled  her  heart. 
She  knew  that  his  father's  prophecy  was  fulfilled. 
During  the  months  of  their  separation,  he  had  con- 
stantly written  to  her,  and  every  letter  breathed  the 
progressive  elvation  of  his  soul.  She  had  followed  in 
spirit,  with  trembling  anxiety,  his  onward  course,  till  it 
had  reached  the  goal  of  fame,  and  now  he  stood  before 
her,  as  his  dying  father  so  eloquently  expressed,  "in 
the  beautiful  robes  of  true  manhood."  And  Mary, 
too,  was  changed.  The  consciousness  of  exciting  so 
noble  an  influence  as  she  had,  over  a  naturally  noble 
mind,  the  exertion  of  her  own  independent  faculties, 
and  the  pure  air^she  breathed  in  those  beautiful 
regions,  had  imparted  a  glow  to  her  countenance,  and 
a  vigour  to  her  frame,  they  had  never  before  possess- 
ed. Her  face  was  now  radiant  with  the  most  lovely 
expression  the  female  lineaments  can  wear. 

"You  have  grown  handsome,  Mary,  as  well  as 
blooming,"  said  Henry,  as  they  walked  together  to- 
wards Mary's  rural  home;  and  Mary,  who  seldom 
blushed,  coloured  like  a  true  heroine,  at  the  unwonted 
compliment. 

That  evening,  after  having  related  all  the  struggles 
he  had  sustained  with  constitutional  and  habitual  in- 
dolence, the  counteracting  influence  of  his  mother, 
who  considered  the  course  he  was  pursuing  as  de- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        347 

grading  rather  than  exalting;  after  an  hour  of  the 
most  unbounded  confidence,  Henry  drew  from  his 
bosom  the  letter  of  his  father,  which  he  had  taken 
from  the  memorable  casket. 

"Mary,  the  time  has  arrived  when  I  may  ask  you 
to  read  this  letter.  My  whole  soul  and  heart  are  in 
my  father's  wishes.  On  your  decision — "  he  was  too 
much  agitated  to  go  on.  He  placed  the  letter  in  her 
hands,  and  gazed  in  silence  on  her  downcast  face 
while  she  perused  its  contents.  He  saw,  through 
gathering  tears  and  rushing  crimson,  gratitude,  joy, 
and  shame.  He  remembered  the  moment  when,  after 
having  warned  him  of  the  arts  of  Miss  Devereux,  he 
had  accused  her  of  "  knowing  little  of  love,"  and  her 
countenance  had  so  eloquently  vindicated  the  charge. 
He  felt  'that  through  all  his  errors  he  had  been  be- 
loved, and  he  wondered  at  himself  that  he  could  ever 
have  been  insensible  to  such  real  and  exalted  loveli- 


Is  it  needful  to  say  what  were  Mr.  Graham's  solemn 
wishes,  what  the  decision  on  which  the  happiness  of 
Henry's  existence  depended  ?  That  he  should  take 
this  inestimable  girl  as  his  wife,  as  a  legacy  more  pre- 
cious than  the  gold  of  the  East ;  and  she  did  become 
his  wife,  and  he  never  regretted  the  hour  when  ho 
was  discarded  by  the  beautiful  Miss  Devereux. 


348  COURTSHIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 


KATE  FRANKLIN  sat  at  the  window,  watching  the 
lightning  that  streamed  through  the  sky,  till  her  eyes 
were  almost  blinded  by  the  glare.  She  was  naturally- 
timid,  and  had  an  unusual  dread  of  a  thunder-storm, 
yet  though  the  lightning  ran  down  in  rills  of  fire,  and 
the  thunder  rolled  till  the  earth  shook  with  its  rever- 
berations, she  kept  her  post  of  danger,  repeating,  as 
she  gazed  abroad,  "  Oh !  that  I  were  a  boy,  that  I 
might  venture  abroad  in  search  of  my  father  I  It  is 
almost  midnight,  3ret  he  is  not  returned.  He  will 
perish  in  a  storm  like  this.  Oh  !  that  I  were  a  boy  1" 
she  again  passionately  exclaimed — while  the  rain 
began  to  drive  against  the  casement,  and  the  wind 
swept  the  branches  of  the  trees  roughly  by  the  panes. 
She  held  a  young  baby  in  her  arms,  which  she  had 
just  lulled  to  sleep,  and  her  mother  lay  sleeping  in  a 
bed  in  the  same  apartment.  All  slumbered  but  Kate, 
who  for  hours  had  watched  from  the  window  for  her 
father's  return.  At  length  her  resolution  was  taken  : 
she  laid  the  babe  by  her  mother's  side,  drew  down  the 
curtain  to  exclude  the  lightning's  glare,  and  throwing 
a  shawl  around  her,  softly  opened  the  door,  and  soon 
found  herself  in  the  street,  in  the  midst  of  the  thunder, 
the  lightning,  and  the  rain.  How  strong  must  have 
been  the  impulse,  how  intense  the  anxiety,  which 
could  have  induced  a  timid  young  girl  to  come  out  ai 
that  lone,  silent  hour,  on  such  a  night,  without  a  pro- 


JOYS  AXD  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        349 

lector  or  a  guide !  She  flew  along  at  first,  but  the  rain 
and  the  wind  beat  in  her  face,  and  the  lightning  bewil- 
dered her  with  its  lurid  corruscations.  Then  pausing 
for  breath,  she  shaded  her  eyes,  aiyl  looking  fearfully 
around,  gazed  on  every  object,  till  her  imagination 
clothed  it  with  its  own  wild  imagery. 

At  length  her  eye  fell  on  a  dark  body  extended 
beneath  a  tree  by  the  way-side.  She  approached  it, 
trembling,  and  kneeling  down,  bent  over  it,  till  she 
felt  a  hot  breath  pass  burningly  over  her  cheek,  and 
just  then  a  sheet  of  flame  rolling  round  it,  she  recog- 
nized but  too  plainly  her  father's  features.  She  took 
his  hand,  but  it  fell  impassive  from  her  hold.  She 
called  upon  his  name,  she  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  tried  to  raise  him  from  the  earth,  but  his 
head  fell  back  like  lead,  and  a  hoarse  breathing  sound 
alone  indicated  his  existence. 

"Father,  dear  father,  wake  and  come  home!"  she 
cried,  in  a  louder  tone;  but  the  thunder's  roar  did  not 
rouse  him,  how  much  less  her  soft,  though  earnest 
voice.  Again  she  called,  but  she  heard  only  the 
echoes  of  night  repeating  her  own  mournful  adjura- 
tion— "  Father,  dear  father,  come  home !" 

How  long  she  thus  remained,  she  knew  not;  but 
the  wind  and  the  rain  subsided,  the  lightning  flashed 
with  a  paler  radiance,  and  at  intervals  the  wan  moon 
might  be  seen  wading  through  the  gray,  watery 
clouds.  She  felt  her  strength  exhausted,  and  clasping 
her  hands  together,  lifted  her  eyes,  streaming  with 
tears,  almost  wishing  a  bolt  would  fall  and  strike 
them  both  simultaneously. 


350  COURTSHIP  AXD   MARRIAGE ;   OR,   THE 

"  My  father  is  lost !"  said  she,  "  and  why  should  I 
wish  him  to  live  ?  Why  should  I  wish  to  survive  him  ?" 

The  sound  of  horse's  feet  approaching  startled  her 
The  horseman  checked  his  speed  as  he  came  opposite 
the  tree,  where  Kate  still  knelt  over  her  father,  and 
as  the  lightning  played  over  her  white  garments, 
which,  being  wet  by  the  rain,  clung  closely  around 
her,  she  might  well  be  mistaken  for  an  apparition. 
Her  shawl  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  her  hair  streamed 
in  dripping  masses  over  her  face,  and  her  uplifted 
arms  were  defined  on  the  dark  background  of  an 
angry  sky.  The  horse  reared  and  plunged,  and  tha 
rider  dismounting,  came  as  near  to  the  spot  as  the 
impetuous  animal  would  allow. 

"Oh!  Harry  "Blake,  is  it  you?"  exclaimed  Kate. 
"  Then  my  father  will  not  be  left  here  to  die !" 

"  Die !"  repeated  Harry ;  "  what  can  have  hap- 
pened ?  Why  are  you  both  abroad  such  a  night  as 
this?" 

"  Alas !"  said  Kate,  "  I  could  not  leave  my  father 
to  perish.  I  sought  him  through  the  storm,  and  I  find 
him  thus." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Harry  had  fastened  the 
bridle  of  his  horse  to  the  tree,  and  stooped  down  on 
the  other  side  of  Mr.  Franklin.  Kate's  first  feeling  on 
his  approach  was  a  transport  of  gratitude — now 
she  was  overwhelmed  with  shame;  for  she  knew,  as 
Harry  inhaled  the  burning  exhalation  of  his  breath, 
his  disgraceful  secret  would  be  revealed — that  secret, 
which  her  mother  and  herself  had  so  long  in  anguish 
concealed. 


JOYS   AXD  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        351 

"  Poor  Kate  1"  involuntarily  burst  from  his  lips,  as 
he  gazed  on  the  prostrate  and  immoveable  form  of 
the  man  he  had  so  much  loved  and  respected.  Had 
he  seen  him  blasted  by  the  lightning's  stroke,  he  could 
not  have  felt  more  shocked  or  grieved.  He  compre- 
hended in  a  moment  the  full  extent  of  his  degrada- 
tion, and  it  seemed  as  if  an  awful  chasm,  yawning 
beneath  his  feet,  now  separated  him,  and  would  for 
ever  separate  him  from  his  instructor  and  friend. 

"  Kate,"  said  he,  and  hia  voice  quivered  from  emo- 
tion, "  this  is  no  place  for  you.  You  are  chilled  by 
the  rain — you  will  be  chilled  to  death,  if  you  remain 
in  your  wet  garments.  Let  me  see  you  safe  at  home, 
and  I  will  return  to  your  father,  nor  leave  him  till  he 
is  in  a  place  of  security." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Kate,  "I  think  not  of  myself,  only 
assist  me  to  raise  him,  and  lead  him  home,  and  I  care 
not  what  happens  to  me.  I  knew  it  would  come  to 
this  at  last.  Oh !  my  po6r  father !" 

Harry  felt  that  there  was  no  consolation  for  such 
grief,  and  he  attempted  not  to  offer  any.  He  put  a 
strong  arm  round  the  unhappy  man,  and  raised  him 
from  the  ground,  still  supporting  his  reeling  body 
and  calling  his  name  in  a  loud,  commanding  tone. 
Mr.  Franklin  opened  his  eyes  with  a  stupid  stare,  and 
uttered  some  indistinct,  idiotic  sounds,  then  letting 
jis  head  fall  on  his  bosom,  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
led  homeward,  reeling,  tottering,  and  stumbling  at 
every  step.  And  this  man,  so  helpless  and  degraded, 
so  imbruted  and  disgusting,  that  his  very  daughter, 
who  had  just  periled  her  life  in  the  night-storm  to 


352  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

secure  him  from  clanger,  and  turned  away  from  him, 
even  while  she  supported  him,  with  unconquerable 
loathing,  was  a  member  of  Congress,  a  distinguished 
lawyer — eloquent  at  the  bar,  and  sagacious  in  council 
• — a  citizen  respected  and  beloved  ;  a  friend  generous 
and  sincere — a  husband  once  idolized — a  father  once 
adored.  The  young  man  who  had  walked  by  his  side, 
had  been  for  more  than  a  year,  a  student  in  his  office, 
and  sat  under  his  instruction,  as  Paul  sat  at  the 
feet  of  Gamaliel.  Now,  in  the  expressive  language 
of  Scripture,  he  could  have  exclaimed,  "Oh,  Lnril<>r, 
thou  son  of  the  morning,  how  low  art  thou  fallen !" 
but  he  moved  on  in  silence,  interrupted  occasionally 
by  the  ill-repressed  sobs  of  Kate.  lie  had  been  that 
day  to  an  adjoining  town  to  transact  some  business 
for  Mr.  Franklin,  and  being  detained  to  an  unusually 
late  hour,  was  overtaken  by  the  .storm,  vhcn  the 
agonized  voice  of  Kate  met  his  car. 

Harry  lingered  a  moment  at  Mr.  Franklin's  door 
before  he  departed.  He  wanted  to  say  something 
expressive  of  comfort  and  sympathy  to  Kate,  but  he 
knew  not  what  to  say. 

"You  will  never  mention  the  circumstances  of 
this  night,  Harry,"  said  Kate,  in  a  low,  hesitating 
tone.  "I  cannot  ask  you  to  respect  my  father  as 
you  have  done,  but  save  him,  if  it  may  be,  from 
the  contempt  of  the  world." 

"If  he  were  my  own  father,  Kate,"  cried  Harry,  "I 
would  not  guard  his  reputation  with  more  jealous 
care.  Look  upon  me  henceforth  as  a  brother,  and 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  353 

call  upon  me  as  such,  when  you  want  counsel,  sym- 
pathy or  aid.  God  bless  you,  Kate." 

"Alas!  there  is  no  blessing  for  a  drunkard's 
daughter,"  sighed  Kate,  as  she  turned  from  the  door 
and  listened  to  her  father's  deep,  sonorous  breathing, 
from  the  sofa  on  which  he  had  staggered,  and  where 
he  lay  stretched  at  full  length,  till  long  after  the  dawn- 
ing of  morn,  notwithstanding  her  efforts  to  induce  him 
to  change  his  drenched  garments. 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  an  invalid,  and  consequently  a 
late  riser.  Kate  usually  presided  at  the  breakfast 
table,  and  attended  to  her  father's  wants.  This  morn- 
ing he  took  his  accustomed  seat,  but  his  coffee  and 
toast  remained  untasted.  He  sat  with  his  head  lean- 
ing upon  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  wall, 
and  his  hair  matted  and  hanging  in  neglected  masses 
over  his  temples.  Kate  looked  upon  his  face,  and  re- 
membered when  she  thought  her  father  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  she  had  ever  seen — when  dignity  was 
enthroned  upon  his  brow,  and  the  purity  as  well  as 
the  majesty  of  genius  beamed  from  his  eye.  He  lifted 
his  head  and  encountered  her  fixed  gaze — probably 
followed  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  for  his  coun- 
tenance darkened,  and  pushing  his  cup  far  from  him, 
he  asked  her,  in  a  surly  tone,  why  she  stared  so  rudely 
upon  him  ? 

Kate  tried  to  answer,  but  there  was  suffocation  in 
her  throat,  and  she  could  not  speak. 

Mr.  Franklin  looked  upon  her  for  a  moment  with 
a  stern,  yet  wavering  glance,  then  rising  and  thrust- 
ing back  his  chair  against  the  wall,  he  left  the 
22 


-."li  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;     OR,   THE 

house,  muttering  as  he  went,  "  curses  not  loud,  but 
deep." 

Kate  had  become  gradually  accustomed  to  the 
lowering  cloud  of  sullenness,  which  the  lethargy  of 
inebriation  leaves  behind  it.  She  had  heard  by  almost 
imperceptible  degrees,  the  voice  of  manly  tenderness 
assume  the  accents  of  querulousness  and  discontent ; 
but  she  had  never  met  such  a  glance  of  defiance,  or  wit- 
nessed such  an  ebullition  of  passion  before.  Her  heart 
rose  in  rebellion  against  him,  and  she  trembled  at  the 
thought  that  she  might  learn  to  hate  him  as  he  thus 
went  on,  plunging  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  gulf  of 
sensuality. 

"  No,  no,  no !"  repeated  she  to  herself,  "  let  me  never 
be  such  a  monster.  Let  me  pity,  pray  for  him,  love 
him  if  I  can — but  let  me  never  forget  that  he  is  my 
father  still." 

Young  as  Kate  was,  she  had  learned  that  endurance, 
not  happiness,  was  her  allotted  portion.  Naturally 
high-spirited  and  impetuous,  with  impassioned  feelings 
and  headlong  impulses,  in  prosperity  she  might  have 
become  haughty  and  ungovernable ;  but  subjected  in 
early  youth  to  a  discipline,  of  all  others  the  most  gall- 
ing to  her  pride,  her  spirit  became  subdued,  and  her 
passions  restrained  by  the  same  process  by  which  her 
principles  were  strengthened,  and  the  powers  of  her 
mind  precociously  developed.  Her  brothers  and 
sisters  had  all  died  in  infancy,  except  one,  now  an 
infant  in  the  cradle,  a  feeble,  delicate  child,  for 
whom  every  one  prophesied  an  early  grave  was  ap- 
pointed. 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  355 

Mrs.  Franklin  herself  was  constitutionally  feeble, 
and  yielding  to  the  depression  of  spirits  caused  by  her 
domestic  misfortunes,  indulged  in  constant  and  inef- 
fectual complainings,  which  added  to  the  gloom  of  the 
household,  without  producing  amendment  or  reforma- 
tion in  its  degraded  master.  She  was  very  proud,  and 
had  been  a  very  beautiful  woman,  who  had  felt  for 
her  husband  an  attachment  romantically  strong,  for  it 
was  fed  by  the  two  strongest  passions  of  her  heart — 
pride,  which  exulted  in  the  homage  paid  to  his  talents 
and  his  graces,  and  vanity,  which  delighted  in  the  in- 
fluence her  beauty  exercised  over  his  commanding 
mind.  Now,  his  talents  and  graces  were  obscured  by 
the  murky  cloud  of  intemperance,  and  her  languishing 
beauty  no  longer  received  its  accustomed  incense ;  the 
corrosions  of  mortification  and  peevish  discontent  be- 
came deeper  and  deeper,  and  life  one  scene  of  gloom 
and  disquietude. 

Kate  grew  up  amidst  these  opposing  influences  like  a 
beautiful  plant  in  a  barren,  ungenial  soil.  To  her  father, 
she  was  the  delicate  but  hardy  saxifrage,  blooming 
through  the  clefts  of  the  cold,  dry  rock  ;  to  her  mother, 
the  sweet  anemone,  shedding  its  blossoms  over  the 
roots  of  the  tree  from  which  it  sprung — fragrant, 
though  unnurtured,  neglected  and  alone. 

It  would  be  too  painful  to  follow,  step  by  step,  Mr. 
Franklin's  downward  course.  Since  the  night  of  his 
public  exposure  he  had  gone  down,  down,  with  a  fear- 
fully accelerated  motion,  like  the  mountain  stream, 
when  it  leaps  over  its  rocky  barrier.  Public  confi- 
dence was  gradually  withdrawn,  clients  and  friends 


356  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

forsook  him,  and  ruin  trod  rapidly  on  the  steps  of 
shame. 

Harry  Blake  clung  to  him,  till  he  saw  his  once  pow- 
erful mind  partaking  so  far  of  the  degradation  of  his 
body,  as  to  be  incapable  of  imparting  light  to  his. 
He  now  felt  it  due  to  himself  to  dissolve  the  connec- 
tion subsisting  between  them — and  he  called,  though 
reluctantly,  to  bid  him  farewell.  Mr.  Franklin  seemed 
much  agitated  when  Harry  informed  him  of  his  in- 
tended departure.  He  knew  the  cause,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  last  link  was  about  to  be  severed  that  bound 
him  to  the  good  and  honourable.  Harry  had  been  to 
him  a  delightful  companion ;  and,  in  the  days  of  his 
unsullied  reputation,  it  had  been  one  of  his  most  in- 
teresting tasks  to  direct  a  mind  so  buoyant  and  aspi- 
ring, and  which  owned,  with  so  much  deference,  the 
overmastering  influence  of  his  own. 

" Do  not  go  yet,  Harry,"  said  he ;  "I  have  much, 
much  to  say  to  you,  and  I  may  never  have  another 
opportunity.  I  have  anticipated  this  moment.  It  is 
painful,  but  justice  to  yourself  demanded  it." 

Harry  seated  himself,  pale  from  suppressed  emo- 
tion, while  Mr.  Franklin  continued  speaking,  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  every  feature  expressive  of 
violent  agitation. 

"  I  have  never  yet  to  a  human  being  introduced  the 
subject  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak — not  even  to  my 
wife  and  daughter.  I  have  never  rolled  back  the 
current  of  time,  and  revealed  the  spot  where,  standing 
on  the  quicksands  of  youth,  the  first  wave  of  tempta- 
tion washed  over  me.  I  could  not  bear  to  allude  to 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  357 

the  history  of  my  degradation.  But  you,  Harry,  are 
going  among  strangers,  amid  untried  scenes — and  I 
would  warn  you  now,  with  the  solemnity  of  a  man 
who  knows  he  has  sealed  his  own  everlasting  ruin,  to 
beware  of  the  first  downward  step.  You  do  not  know 
me,  sir— no  one  knows  me ;  they  know  not  my  pa- 
rentage, or  the  accursed  stream  that  runs  in  these 
veins. 

"  My  father  was  called  the  King  of  the  Drunkards 
He  drank  till  he  was  transformed,  breath,  bones,  and 
sinew,  into  flame,  and  then  he  died — the  most  horrible 
of  all  deaths — of  spontaneous  combustion.  Yes,  he 
was  the  King  of  the  Drunkards  !  I  remember  when 
a  little  boy,  I  saw  him  walking  at  the  head  of  a  long 
procession,  with  a  banner  flying,  as  if  in  triumph,  and 
a  barrel  of  whiskey  rolling  before,  on  which  the 
drummer  made  music  as  they  walked.  And  shouts 
went  up  in  the  air,  and  people  applauded  from  the 
windows  and  the  doors — and  I  thought  the  drunkard's 
was  a  merry  life.  But  when  I  grew  older,  and  saw 
my  mother's  cheek  grow  paler  and  paler,  and  knew 
that  my  father's  curses  and  threats,  and  brutal  treat- 
ment were  the  cause — when  I  saw  her  at  length  die 
of  a  broken  heart,  and  heard  the  neighbours  say  that 
my  father  had  killed  her,  and  that  he  would  have  to 
answer  for  her  death  at  the  great  bar  of  Heaven  ! — 
I  began  to  feel  an  indescribable  dread  and  horror,  and 
looked  upon  my  father  with  loathing  and  abhorrence  ! 
And  when  he  died — when  his  body  was  consumed  by 
flames,  which  seemed  to  me  emblematical  of  the 
winding-sheet  in  which  his  soul  was  wrapped — I  fled 


358  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

from  my  native  town,  my  native  State ;  I  begged  my 
bread  from  door  to  door.  At  length,  a  childless 
stranger  took  me  in.  He  pitied  my  forlorn  condition 
— clothed,  fed,  and  educated  me.  Nature  had  given 
me  talents,  and  now  opportunity  unfolded  them.  ~\ 
became  proud  and  ambitious,  and  I  wanted  to  con- 
vince my  benefactor  that  I  was  no  vulgar  boy.  Con- 
scious of  the  dregs  from  which  I  had  been  extracted 
I  was  resolved  to  make  myself  a  name  and  fame — and 
I  have  done  it.  You  know  it,  Harry — I  have  taken 
my  station  in  the  high  places  of  the  land ;  and  the 
time  has  been,  when  but  to  announce  yourself  as  my 
student,  would  have  been  your  passport  to  distinction. 
Well,  do  you  want  to  know  what  made  me  what  I 
am  ? — what,  when  such  a  burning  beacon  was  forever 
blazing  before  my  memory,  hurried  me  on  to  throw 
my  own  blasted  frame  into  a  drunkard's  dishonoured 
grave  ?  I  will  tell  you,  young  man — it  was  the  wine 
cup! — the  glass  offered  by  the  hand  of  beauty,  with 
smiles  and  adulation  !  I  had  made  a  vow  over  my 
mother's  ashes  that  I  would  never  drink.  I  prayed 
God  to  destroy  me,  body  and  soul,  if  I  ever  became  a 
drunkard.  But  wine,  they  said,  was  one  of  God's  best 
gifts,  and  it  gladdened  without  inebriating — it  was  in- 
gratitude to  turn  from  its  generous  influence.  I  be- 
lieved them,  for  it  was  alcohol  that  consumed  my 
father.  And  I  drank  wine  at  the  banquet  and  the 
board — and  I  drank  porter  and  ale,  and  the  rich- 
scented  cordial— and  I  believed  myself  to  be  a  tem- 
perate man.  I  thought  I  grew  more  intellectual ;  I 
could  plead  more  eloquently,  and  my  tongue  made 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.          359 

more  music  at  the  convivial  feast.  But  when  the  ex- 
citement of  the  scene  was  over,  I  felt  languid  and 
depressed.  My  head  ached,  and  my  nerves  seemed 
unsheathed.  A  thirst  was  enkindled  within  me,  that 
wine  could  no  longer  quench.  A  hereditary  fire  was 
burning  in  my  veins.  I  had  lighted  up  the  smoulder- 
ing spark,  and  it  now  blazed,  and  blazed.  I  knew  I 
was  destroying  myself,  but  the  power  of  resistance 
was  gone.  When  I  first  tasted,  I  was  undone  !  Be- 
ware, Harry,  beware  !  To  save  you  from  temptation, 
I  have  lifted  the  veil,  and  laid  bare  before  you  the  hell 
of  a  drunkard's  bosom.  But  no !  that  cannot  be.  The 
Invisible  alone  can  witness  the  agonies  of  remorse,  the 
corroding  memories,  the  anticipated  woes,  the  unutter- 
able horrors  that  I  endure  and  dread — and  expect  to 
endure  as  long  as  the  Great  God  himself  exists." 

He  paused,  and  sunk  down  exhausted  into  a  chair. 
Large  drops  of  sweat  rolled  down  his  livid  brow — his 
knees  knocked  together,  his  lips  writhed  convulsively, 
every  muscle  seemed  twisted,  and  every  vein  swollen 
and  blackened.  Harry  was  terrified  at  this  paroxysm. 
He  sprang  toward  him,  and  untying  the  handkerchief 
from  his  neck,  handed  him  a  glass  of  water  with  trem- 
bling hands.  Mr.  Franklin  looked  up,  and  meeting 
Harry's  glance  of  deep  commisseration,  his  features 
relaxed,  and  largo  tears,  slowly  gathering,  rolled  down 
his  cheeks.  He  ben*  forward,  and  extending  his  arms 
across  the  table,  laid  his  head  on  them ;  and  deep, 
suffocating  sobs  burst  forth,  shaking  his  frame,  as  if 
with  strong  spasms.  Harry  was  unutterably  affected. 
He  had  never  seen  man  weep  thus  before.  He  knew 


860  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

they  were  tears  wrung  by  agony,  the  agony  of  remorse; 
and  while  he  wept  in  sympathy,  he  gathered  the  hope 
of  his  regeneration  from  the  intensity  of  his  sufferings. 

"  I  pity  you,  Mr.  Franklin,"  said  he,  "  from  my  soul 
I  pity  you — but  you  must  not  give  yourself  up  as  lost. 
God  never  yet  tempted  a  man  beyond  his  strength. 
You  may,  you  can,  you  must  resist.  For  your  own 
sake,  for  your  wife's — your  daughter's  sake,  I  con- 
jure you." 

"  My  daughter's  !"  interrupted  Mr.  Franklin,  lifting 
his  head.  "Ah!  that  name  touches  the  chord  that 
still  vibrates.  Poor  Kate!  poor  Kate!  The  hand 
that  should  have  blessed  has  blighted  her  young  hopes. 
My  wife  reproaches  me,  and  gives  me  gall  and  vine- 
gar, even  when  I  would  meet  her  with  smiles.  But 
Kate  never  gave  me  one  reproach  but  her  tears.  I 
once  thought  you  loved  her,  and  that  I  should  see  the 
two  objects  I  most  loved,  happy  in  each  other's  affec 
tions,  and  scattering  roses  over  the  pillow  of  my 
declining  years.  But  that  can  never  be  now ;  youi 
proud  father  will  never  permit  you  to  marry  a 
drunkard's  daughter."  He  spoke  this  in  a  bitter  tone, 
and  a  smile  of  derision  for  a  moment  curled  his  lips. 

"  You  thought  right,"  exclaimed  Harry,  passionately, 
"  I  have  loved  her,  I  do  love  her,  as  the  best,  the  love- 
liest, the  most  exalted  of  human  beings.  I  would  not 
pain  you,  sir,  but  you  constrain  me  to  speak  the  truth : 
my  father  hns  forbidden  me  to  think  of  such  a  union, 
and  as  I  am  now  dependent  on  him,  I  could  not  brave 
his  commands  without  seeking  to  plunge  your  daughter 
into  poverty  and  sorrow.  Yet  I  will  not  deceive  you 


JOYS  AND   SOEKOWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  361 

I  would  have  braved  everything  with  her  consent,  but 
she  refuses  to  listen  to  vows,  unsanctioned  by  parental 
authority.  The  time,  I  trust,  will  corne  when,  having 
secured  an  independence,  by  my  energies,  I  may  dare 
to  speak  and  act  as  a  man,  and  woo  her  to  be  my  wife 
in  the  face  of  the  world." 

"  Yes !  yes !"  repeated  Mr.  Franklin,  "the  time  may 
come,  but  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it.  There  is  at  times 
such  a  deadly  faintness,  such  a  chilly  weight  here," 
laying  his  hand  on  his  breast,  "  it  seems  as  though  I 
could  feel  the  cold  fingers  of  death  clutching  round 
my  heart  and  freezing  my  life-blood.  If  I  did  not 
warm  the  current  with  fresh  streams  of  alcohol,  I 
should  surely  die.  Then  this  aching  brow,  this  throb- 
bing brain,  these  quivering  nerves,  and  shaking  limbs, 
are  they  not  all  the  heralds  of  coming  dissolution? — 
Harry,  I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you — I  have  but  one 
thing  more  to  say :  if  you  resist  temptation,  and  I  pray 
God  you  may,  dare  not  triumph  over  the  fallen.  Oh  ! 
you  know  not,  you  dream  not,  in  the  possession  of 
unclouded  reason  and  unblighted  faculties,  the  proud 
master  of  yourself,  what  that  wretch  endures,  who,  be- 
set by  demons  on  every  side,  feels  himself  dragged 
down  lower  and  lower,  incapable  of  resistance,  to  the 
very  verge  of  the  bottomless  pit." 

He  wrung  Harry's  hand  in  his,  then  turned  and  left 
the  office.  Harry  followed,  oppressed  and  awe-struck 
by  the  revelations  he  had  heard.  Temptation,  sin, 
sorrow,  disgrace,  death,  judgment,  and  eternity,  swept 
like  dark  phantoms  across  his  mind ;  chasing  away 
hope,  love,  joy,  and  heaven ;  even  the  image  of  Kate 


362  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE:    OR,   THE 

Franklin  flitted  mournfully  in  the  back-ground,  fading 
and  indistinct  as  a  vanishing  rainbow. 

Kate  grieved  at  Harry's  departure,  but  it  was  a 
grief  which  vented  itself  in  tears.  She  was  affected 
by  his  disinterested  attachment ;  she  esteemed  his  vir- 
tues and  admired  his  character,  and  in  sunnier  hours 
she  might  have  indulged  in  those  sweet  day-dreams 
of  love,  which  throw  over  the  realities  of  life  the  huea 
of  heaven.  But  she  felt  it  was  hers  to  endure  and  to 
struggle,  not  to  enjoy — she  dared  not  fix  her  gaze  on 
the  single  star  that  shone  through  the  dark  clouds 
closing  around  her,  lest  it  should  charm  her  into  a  for- 
getfulness  of  the  perils  and  duties  of  her  situation ; 
so  gathering  all  her  energies,  as  the  traveller  folds  his 
mantle  over  his  breast  to  shield  him  from  the  tempest, 
the  more  fearful  the  storm,  the  more  firm  and  strong 
became  her  powers  of  resistance.  It  was  summer 
when  Harry  departed,  and  Kate,  though  she  never 
mentioned  his  name,  found  his  remembrance  associa- 
ted with  the  flowers,  the  fragrance,  and  the  moonlight 
of  that  beautiful  season;  but  when  winter  came 
on,  with  its  rough  gales,  and  sleet  and  snow — for  she 
lived  on  the  granite  hills  of  New  England,  where  the 
snow  spirit  revels  amid  frost-work  and  ice — she  sat 
by  a  lonely  fire,  watching  her  father's  late  return,  or 
nursing  the  fretful  and  delicate  babe  in  her  mother's 
chamber,  all  the  anticipated  ills  of  poverty  hanging 
darkly  over  her,  Kate  found  her  only  comfort  in  com- 
muning with  her  God,  to  whom,  in  the  dearth  of  all 
earthly  joy,  she  had  turned  for  support  and  consola- 
tion, and  as  her  religious  faith  increased,  her  fortitude 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  363 

strengthened,  and  her  stern  duties  became  easier  of 
performance.  One  night  she  sat  alone  by  the  fireside 
— and  it  was  a  most  tempestuous  night,  the  wind 
howled  and  tossed  the  naked  boughs  of  the  trees 
against  the  windows,  which  rattled  as  if  they  would 
shiver  in  the  blast ;  and  the  snow,  drifted  by  its  vio- 
lence, blew  in  white  wreaths  on  the  glass  and  hung  its 
chill  drapery  on  the  walls.  She  sat  on  a  low  seat  in 
the  corner,  her  Bible  on  her  knees,  a  dim  fire  burning 
on  the  hearth,  for  cold  as  it  was,  she  would  not  suffer 
it  to  be  replenished  with  fuel  which  her  mother  might 
yet  want  for  her  own  comfort.  She  was  gradually 
accustoming  herself  to  personal  privations,  voluntarily 
abstaining  from  every  luxury,  not  knowing  how  soon 
she  might  need  the  necessaries  of  life.  She  was  read- 
ing the  sublime  book  of  Job,  and  when  she  came  to 
the  words,  "  Hast  thou  entered  into  the  .snow  ?  Hast 
thou  seen  the  treasures  of  the  hail?"  she  repeated 
them  aloud,  struck  with  the  force,  mid  the  wintry 
scene  around  her.  At  this  moment  her  father  en- 
tered. It  was  an  unusually  early  hour  for  his  return, 
and  as  he  walked  forward  she  noticed  with  joy  that, 
his  step  was  less  fluctuating  than  usual.  He  bent 
shivering  over  the  fire,  which  Kate  immediately 
kindled  afresh,  and  a  bright  blaze  soon  diffused 
warmth  and  cheerfulness  through  the  apartment. 

"  I  heard  your  voice  as  I  entered,  Kate,"  said  he ; 
"  where  is  your  companion  ?" 

"  There,"  answered  she,  lifting  the  Bible  from  her 
knees — "  here  is  the  companion  of  my  solitude,  and  a 
very  pleasing  one  I  find  it." 


364  COURTSHIP   AND   1IAR1UAGE ;    OK,   THE 

Mr.  Franklin  fixed  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  Kate  for 
a  few  moments,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
gazed  upon  the  ceiling,  and  spoke  as  in  a  soliloquy — 

"  I  remember  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  reading  that 
book  at  my  mother's  knee,  and  when  she  was  dying 
she  told  me  never  to  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
without  reading  a  chapter  and  praying  to  the  Great 
God  for  pardon  and  protection.  But  that  was  a  long 
time  ago.  I  would  not  open  it  now  for  the  universe." 

"Oh!  father!"  exclaimed  Kate,  "do  not  say  so. 
Young  as  I  am,  I  have  lived  too  long  if  the  promises 
written  here  be  not  true.  They  alone  have  saved  me 
from  despair." 

"Despair!"  repeated  he,  in  a  hollow  tone — "yes, 
that  is  the  fitting  word,  but  it  belongs  to  me  alone. 
YOM  are  innocent  and  virtuous,  and  why  should  you 
talk  of  despair?  You  have  no  brand  on  your  brow, 
no  thunder-scar  graven  by  the  Almighty's  hand,  from 
which  men  turn  away,  and  women  shrink  from  with 
horror.  I  am  an  object  of  loathing  and  scorn  to  all. 
Even  you,  my  own  daughter,  who  once  lived  in  my 
bosom,  if  I  should  open  my  arms  to  enfold  you,  as  I 
was  wont  to  do,  would  shrink  from  me,  u^  from  llu: 
leper's  touch." 

"  Oh !  no,  no !"  cried  Kate,  springing  from  her  sent, 
and  throwing  her  arms  impulsively  around  his  neck, 
while  her  tears  literally  rained  on  his  shoulder. 

It  had  been  long  months  since  she  had  heard  such 
a  gush  of  tenderness  from  his  lips — since  she  had 
dared  to  proffer  the  caresses  of  affection.  She  thought 
all  natural  feeling  was  dried  up  in  his  heart — withered, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  365 

scorched  by  the  fiery  breath  of  intemperance.  She 
had  locked  her  grief  and  humiliation  in  her  own 
breast.  She  believed  every  appeal  to  her  reason  and 
sensibility  would  be  as  unavailing  as  if  made  to  the 
granite  of  her  native  hills.  She  now  reproached  her- 
self for  her  coldness  and  reserve.  She  accused  herself 
of  neglect  and  irreverence. 

"  Oh,  my  father!"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  you  still  love 
me  I  will  not  despair.  There  is  hope,  there  will  be 
joy.  You  have  but  to  make  one  great  effort,  and 
you  will  be  free  once  more.  Chains,  strong  as  ada- 
mant, cannot  bind  the  soul  to  sin,  unless  it  is  a  willing 
captive.  You  are  wr^hed  now ;  we  are  all  wretched. 
No  smiles  gladden  our  household.  My  mother  lies 
on  a  bed  of  languishment,  where  a  breaking  heart  has 
laid  her.  My  little  sister  pines  like  a  flower,  which 
sunbeams  never  visited ;  and  I — oh,  father !  Avords 
can  never  tell  the  wo,  the  anguish,  the  agony,  which 
I  have  pent  up  in  my  bosom,  till  it  threatened  to 
destroy  me.  I  would  not  reproach  you— I  would  not 
add  one  drop  to  your  cup  of  bitterness — but  I  must 
speak  now,  or  I  die." 

Excited  beyond  her  power  of  self-control,  Kate  slid 
from  her  father's  relaxing  arms,  and  taking  the  Bible, 
which  lay  upon  her  chair,  in  both  hands,  prostrated 
herself  at  his  feet. 

"  By  this  blessed  book,"  continued  she,  in  an 
exalted  voice,  "  this  book  which  has  poured  oil  and 
balsam  in  my  bleeding  heart,  this  book,  so  rich  in 
promises,  so  fearful  in  threatenings — by  the  God  who 
created  you  to  glorify  Him,  the  Saviour  who  died  to 


366 

redeem  you — by  your  immortal  and  endangered  soul 
— I  pray  thee  to  renounce  the  fatal  habit,  which  has 
transformed  our  once  blissful  home  into  a  prison-house 
of  shame,  sorrow,  and  despair." 

She  paused,  breathless  from  intense  emotion,  but 
her  uplifted  hands  still  clasped  the  sacred  volume;  her 
cheek  glistening  with  tears,  was  mantled  with  crim- 
son ;  and  her  eyes,  turned  up  to  her  father,  beamed 
with  the  inspiration  of  the  Christian's  hope. 

Mr.  Franklin  looked  down  upon  his  daughter,  as 
she  thus  knelt  before  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  ray 
from  the  Divine  intelligence  darted  like  a  glory  from 
her  eyes  into  the  depths  of  hMMoul.  Lost,  ruined  as 
he  was,  there  was  still  hope  of  his  redemption.  He 
might  be  saved.  She,  like  a  guiding  cherub,  might 
still  take  him  by  the  hand,  and  lead  him  back  to  the 
green  paths  of  pellucid  streams  where  he  had  once 
walked  with  undoubting  footsteps.  As  these  thoughts 
rolled  through  his  mind,  he  bent  forward,  lower  and 
lower,  till  his  knees  touched  the  floor.  He  wrapped 
his  arms  around  Kate,  and,  leaning  his  head  on  her 
shoulder,  sobbed  aloud.  The  prayer  of  the  publican 
trembled  on  his  lips — "  Oh,  my  God !  have  mercy 
upon  me,  a  miserable  sinner!  Oh,  Thou  who  was 
once  tempted,  yet  never  sinned,  save  me  from  temp- 
tation !" 

It  was  long  before  other  sounds  interrupted  the  hal- 
lowed silence  which  succeeded.  Kate  hardly  dared  to 
breathe,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  communion  her 
father's  soul  was  holding  with  the  being  he  invoked. 
Her  heart  ached  with  the  fulness  of  hope  that  flowed 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  367 

into  it  from  channels  long  sealed.  Had  he  made  pro- 
mises of  amendment  in  his  own  strength,  she  might 
have  feared  their  stability,  but  now,  when  she  saw 
him  prostrate  in  the  dust,  in  tears  and  humiliation, 
crying  for  mercy  from  the  depths  of  a  wounded  and 
contrite  spirit,  she  believed  that  He,  "  whose  fan  is  in 
His  hand,"  had  come  to  winnow  the  chaff  from  the 
wheat,  before  the  whole  should  be  consumed  with  un- 
quenchable fire. 

It  was  midnight  before  she  rose  to  retire  to  her 
chamber.  She  felt  unwilling  to  leave  her  father.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  this  night  was  the  crisis  of  her  des- 
tiny— that  angels  and^emons  were  wrestling  for  his 
soul — that  the  angels^ad  prevailed;  but  might  not 
the  demons  return  ?  or  the  good  angels,  too  sure  of 
their  victory,  wing  their  way  back  to  the  skies  ?  Long 
after  she  had  retired  to  bed,  she  heard  him  walk  back- 
wards and  forwards,  and  sometimes  she  heard  his  voice 
ascending  as  in  prayer. 

"  Hear  him,  gracious  Father !"  cried  she,  from  her 
moistened  pillow,  "  hear  him,  answer  and  bless  him  !" 

Then  folding  her  arms  closely  round  the  infant,  who 
slumbered  by  her  side,  she  gradually  fell  asleep,  and 
it  will  throw  no  shade  over  her  filial  piety  to  believe* 
that  no  one  thought  of  Henry  Blake,  associated  with 
pure  images  of  future  felicity,  gilded  her  dreams. 
How  long  she  slept,  she  knew  not;  but  she  awoke 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  suffocation,  and,  starting  up 
in  bed,  looked  wildly  around  her.  She  saw  nothing, 
but  the  chamber  seemed  filled  with  smoke,  and  a  hol- 
low, crackling  sound  met  her  ear.  The  dread  of  fire 


-868         COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

for  a  moment  paralyzed  her  limbs.  It  was  but  a  mo- 
ment — when  springing  from  her  bed,  the  infant  still 
cradled  on  her  arm,  she  opened  the  door,  and  found 
the  terrible  reality  of  her  fears.  Such  a  rush  of  hot 
air  pressed  upon  her,  she  staggered  back,  panting  and 
bewildered.  The  flames  were  rolling  in  volumes 
through  the  next  apartment,  and  the  wind,  blowing  in 
violence  through  the  outer  door,  which  was  open, 
fearfully  accelerated  the  work  of  destruction. 

">Iy  father  1"  shrieked  Kate;  u  my  father !— where 

is  he  ?" 

That  fearful  cry  awoke  the  child,  who  screamed  and 
clung  in  terror  closer  to  her  Ij^m  ;  but  her  mother, 
who  seldom  slept  except  undeWe  influence  of  power- 
ful opiates,  lay  still  unmoved,  unconscious  of  the  ter- 
rific element  which  was  raging  around  her. 

"Mother!"  cried  Kate,  franticly,  "  wake  or  you  die! 
The  house  is  in  flames!— they  are  roUing  towards  us! 
—they  are  coming  I  Oh !  my  God— mother,  awake !" 
She  shook  her  arm  with  violence,  and  shrieked  in 
her  ear ;  but,  though  she  moved  and  spoke,  she  seemed 
in  a  lethargy  so  deep,  that  nothing  could  rouse  her  to 
a  sense  of  her  danger. 

The  flames  began  to  curl  their  forked  tongues  around 
the  very  door  of  the  chamber,  and  the  house  shook 
and  quivered  as  if  with  the  throes  of  an  earthquake. 
Kate  knew  she  could  make  her  own  escape  through  a 
door,  in  an  opposite  direction ;  but  she  resolved,  ii 
she  could  not  save  her  mother,  to  perish  with  her. 
She  would  have  her  lifted  in  her  arms,  were  it  not  for 
the  infant  clinging  to  her  bosom.  Perchance  that  infant 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  369 

might  be  saved.  She  rushed  through  the  door  made 
her  way  through  the  drifting  snow  to  the  street,  laid 
the  child  down  on  the  chill  but  soft  bank  by  the  wall- 
side,  silently  commending  it  to  the  protection  of  God, 
— then  winged  her  way  back  to  the  'building,  though 
the  flames  were  now  bursting  from  the  roof,  and  red- 
dening the  snow  with  their  lurid  glare. 

"Mother,  dear  mother,  speak  if  you  live,"  cried 
Kate,  shuddering  at  the  supernatural  sounds  of  her 
own  voice.  A  faint  groan  issued  from  the  bed,  round 
which  the  flames  were  rapidly  gathering.  It  is  aston- 
ishing what  strength  is  given  by  desperation.  Kate 
was  a  slender  girl,  of  d^jate  frame,  unused  to  physi- 
cal exertion,  but  now  SB  felt  nerved  with  a  giant's 
strength.  She  took  up  her  mother  in  her  arms,  just 
as  the  fire  caught  the  bed  curtain,  and  communicated 
even  to  her  night-dress.  Smothering  the  blaze  with 
the  blanket  she  had  dragged  from  the  bed  in  rescuing 
her  mother,  she  flew  rather  than  walked,  burdened  as 
she  was,  the  flames  roaring  and  hissing  behind  her, 
gaining  upon  her  at  every  step — the  hot  air  almost 
stifling  her  breath,  even  while  her  naked  feet  were 
plunging  through  the  snow  drifts,  and  the  frosts  pene- 
trating her  thin  night  wrapper.  It  seemed  as  if  ages 
of  thought  find  feeling  were  compressed  in  that  awful 
moment.  Her  father's  dreaded  fate — her  little  sister 
freezing  on  the  snow — the  servants  probably  perishing 
in  the  flames— her  houseless  mother  fainting  in  her 
arms — her  own  desolate  condition — all  was  as  vividly 
impressed  on  her  mind  as  the  lurid  blaze  of  the  confla- 
gration on  the  dark  grey  of  the  wintry  night.  She 
23 


870  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

bent  her  steps  to  the  nearest  dwelling,  which  was  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Blake,  the  father  of  Harry.  She 
reached  the  threshold,  and  feU  with  her  now  senseless 
"burden,  heavily  against  the  door.  She  tried  to  call 
aloud  for  assistance,  but  no  sound  issued  from  her 
parched  and  burning  lips.  She  endeavored  to  lift  her 
right  hand  to  the  knocker,  but  it  was  numb  and  power- 
less, and  in  her  left,  which  encircled  her  mother,  she 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  most  intense  pain. 

"Merciful  Father!"  thought  she,  "thou  who  has 
sustained  us  thus  far,  leave  us  not  to  perish  1" 

Even  while  this  prayer  burst  from  her  soul,  foot- 
steps approached,  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Blake,  ac- 
companied by  a  servant,  be«Rg  a  lamp,  stood  upon 
the  threshold.  He  had  been  awakened  a  few  minutes 
before  by  the  reflection  of  the  blaze  in  his  chamber, 
and  had  just  aroused  his  family,  when  the  sudden  jar- 
ring of  the  door  excited  his  alarm.  He  recoiled  at 
first  with  horror  from  the  spectacle  which  he  beheld. 
Mrs.  Franklin,  white,  ghastly  and  still,  lay  to  all  ap- 
pearance dead,  in  the  nerveless  arms  of  her  daughter, 
who,  pale,  prostrate,  and  voiceless,  could  only  lift  her 
imploring  eyes,  and  moan  the  supplication  her  lips 
vainly  sought  to  express.  Mr.  Blake  had  forbidden 
hit]  son  to  marry  a  drunkard's  daughter,  and  he  had 
looked  coldly  on  Kate,  secretly  condemning  her  for 
the  influence  she  unconsciously  exercised  over  his 
destiny.  But  he  was  not  a  hard-hearted  man,  though 
very  proud,  and  his  wife  was  a  repository  of  heaven's 
own  influences.  Under  her  anxious  superintendence, 
the  sufferers  were  soon  placed  in  warm  beds,  and  every 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  371 

means  used  for  the  resuscitation  of  the  one,  and  the 
renovation  of  the  other,  while  Mr.  Blake,  with  the 
male -part  of  the  household,  hastened  to  the  scene  of 
the  conflagration.  The  main  building  was  now 
enveloped  in  fire,  but  the  kitchen  was  still  standing, 
and  he  rejoiced  to  see  the  servants  rushing  to  and  fro, 
trying  to  save  something,  perhaps  their  own  property, 
from  the  ruins.  He  looked  around  in  search  of  the 
unhappy  master,  and  trembled  at  the  supposition  that 
he  might  have  found  a  funeral  pyre.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done — the  work  of  destruction  was 
almost  consummated,  and  he  was  turning  away  sick 
at  heart,  when  he  thought  he  saw  a  bundle  lying  near 
the  wall  where  he  stooft  He  stooped  down,  and  be- 
held with  astonishment  a  sleeping  infant.  At  first  he 
thought  it  dead,  but  when  he  raised  it,  and  touched  his 
cheek  to  its  cold  face,  he  felt  its  sweet  breath  stealing 
softly  over  his  lips,  and  its  little  hand  instinctively 
clasped  his  neck.  He  was  inexpressibly  affected,  and 
gathering  the  folds  of  his  cloak  around  it,  he  pressed 
it  to  his  bosom  with  a  father's  tenderness.  Never  had 
he  been  so  struck  with  the  special  providence  of  God, 
as  in  the  preservation  of  this  little  outcast.  Angels 
must  have  brooded  over  it,  and  impressed  their 
heavenly  warmth  upon  its  chilly  bed.  But  who  had 
laid  it  so  tenderly  in  its  snowy  cradle,  aloof  from  the 
smoke  and  the  blaze  ?  Who  but  she  whose  filial  arms 
had  borne  her  mother  to  his  own  door !  As  he 
answered  this  interrogation  to  himself,  his  heart  smote 
him  for  his  injustice  to  the  heroic  girl  who  had  made 
such  unparalleled  exertions.  He  almost  wished  Harry 


372  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

was  at  home — but  this  was  a  moment  of  excitement ; 
when  he  became  calmer,  he  rejoiced  at  his  absence. 

Mr.  Franklin  had  not  perished  in  the  ruins.  After 
Kate  had  left  him,  his  newly  awakened  feelings  of  re- 
morse raged  with  frenzy  in  his  bosom.  No  longer 
soothed  by  his  daughter's  caresses,  and  sustained  by 
her  prayers,  the  blackness  of  despair  rolled  over  him. 
He  could  not  compose  himself  to  rest — the  room 
seemed  too  small  to  contain  the  mighty  conflict  of  his 
feelings.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  blazing 
hearth,  and  feel  the  fires  raging  within.  He  went  to  the 
door,  and  as  the  cold  wind  blew  on  his  brow,  he  felt 
inexpressible  relief,  and  leaving  the  door  unlatched, 
he  rushed  abroad,  reckless  wHere  he  went,  provided 
he  could  escape  from  himself.  The  farther  he  roamed 
from  his  own  home,  the  more  he  seemed  to  lose  the 
consciousness  of  his  own  identity,  till  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  floor 
of  an  uninhabited  dwelling,  which  had  often  been  the 
scene  of  his  drunken  orgies.  There  he  lay,  while  the 
fire  which  he  left  blazing  on  the  hearth,  fanned  by  the 
blast  howling  through  the  open  door,  reveled  uncon- 
trolled and  unconquerable.  When  at  morning  he 
sought  his  homestead,  he  found  it  a  heap  of  smoulder- 
ing ruins — and  he  knew  the  work  of  destruction  was 
his.  He  remembered  how  the  door  creaked  in  the 
blast,  and  in  his  madness  he  would  not  return.  While 
he  stood  gazing  in  speechless  agony  oti  the  wreck, 
Mr.  Blake  approached,  and  taking  him  by  the  arm, 
drew  him  to  his  own  dwelling.  Like  the  friends  of 
Job,  he  spoke  not,  for  "  he  saw  his  grief  was  very 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  373 

great."  His  wife,  whom  lie  had  once  tenderly  loved, 
and  who,  in  his  chastened  mood,  came  back  to  his 
memory,  clothed  in  all  the  sweetness  of  which  his 
vices  had  robbed  her,  lay  on  her  deathbed.  Though 
rescued  by  filial  devotion  from  a  fiery  grave,  she  had 
swallowed  the  breath  of  the  flames,  and  her  chafed  and 
wounded  spirit  was  passing  into  the  presence  of  hei 
Maker.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she  knew  him  as  he 
entered,  and  stretching  out  her  feeble  hand,  her 
dying  glance  spoke  only  pity  and  forgiveness. 
The  unhappy  man  knelt  by  her  side,  and  burying 
his  face  in  the  bed-cover,  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  an- 
guish, that  was  like  the  rending  asunder  of  body  and 
soul.  And  Kate,  too,  lay  there  by  the  side  of  her 
dying  mother,  with  frozen  feet,  blistered  hands,  and 
feverish  brow — with  her  bright  locks  scorched  and 
disheveled — her  eyes  bloodshot  and  dim.  This,  too, 
was  his  work.  There  are  calamities  which  come  im- 
mediately from  the  hand  of  God,  and  man  bows  in 
weakness  before  the  majesty  of  the  power  that  over- 
whelms him.  The  pestilence  that  walketh  in  dark- 
ness— the  tempest  that  wasteth  at  noonday — the  earth- 
quake— the  flood — are  ministers  of  his  vengeance, 
and  come  clothed  with  an  authority  so  high  and  sa- 
cred, the  boldest  and  strongest  dare  not  rebel.  But 
when  the  sufferer  stands  amid  ruin  his  own  hand  has 
wrought — when  conscience  tells  him  he  has  arrogated 
to  himself  the  fearful  work  of  destruction,  and  stolen 
and  winged  the  darts  of  death — there  is  an  unfatho- 
mable wo,  an  immedicable  wound,  an  undying  re- 
morse— an  antepast  on  earth  of  the  retributions  of 


374         COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

heaven.  Let  no  one  say  the  horrors  of  intemperance 
are  exaggerated !  Here  fire  and  death  had  done  their 
part,  but  murder  had  not  yet  reddened  the  black  cata- 
logue of  sin.  Happy,  comparatively  happy,  the  ine- 
briate who  is  arrested  in  his  headlong  career,  before 
the  blood  of  innocence,  mingling  with  the  libations 
of  Bacchus,  brands  him  with  the  curse  of  Cain — the 
indelible  stamp  of  infamy,  which  his  own  life,  poured 
out  on  the  scaffold,  cannot  efface,  and  which  is  handed 
down  an  inalienable  heritage,  to  his  children's  children. 
The  day  after  the  remains  of  the  ill-fated  Mrs. 
Franklin  were  consigned  to  the  grave,  the  citizens 
of  the  place  assembled  in  the  town  hall,  to  make 
arrangements  for  the  relief  of  the  suffering  family. 
Their  sympathies  were  strongly  excited  in  behalf  of 
the  heroine,  Kate — and  in  the  hour  of  his  calamity 
they  remembered  Mr.  Franklin  as  he  was  in  his  high 
and  palmy  days,  when  his  voice  had  so  often  filled 
the  hall  where  they  were  met,  with  strains  of  the 
loftiest  eloquence.  They  had  seen  him  prostrated  on 
the  grave  of  his  wife,  in  sorrow  that  refused  consola- 
tion, and  they  felt  towards  him  something  of  that 
tenderness  which  we  feel  for  the  dead — when  vice  is 
recollected  with  compassion  rather  than  hatred,  and 
scorn  melts  in  forgiveness.  "Warmed  by  a  common 
impulse,  they  contributed  munificently,  and  made 
immediate  preparations  for  the  erection  of  a  new 
building  on  the  site  of  the  old.  Mr.  Frankln,  who 
was  aware  of  their  movements,  entered  the  hall  be- 
fore they  separated.  It  had  been  long  since  he  had 
met  his  former  friends,  associated  in  such  a  respect- 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  375 

able  body,  and  a  few  days  before  he  would  Lave 
shrunk  from  their  glances,  conscious  of  his  degraded 
condition.  Now,  strengthened  by  a  solemn  resolu- 
tion, he  came  among  them,  and  standing  in  their 
midst,  he  begged  permission  to  address  them  a  few 
moments.  He  began  with  the  history  of  his  boy- 
hood, and  told  them  his  parentage,  his  flight,  his 
temptation,  his  perjury,  and  guilt.  His  voice  was  at 
first  faltering,  but  as  he  proceeded,  it  recovered  much 
of  its  former  richness  of  tone,  and  when  he  painted 
his  remorse  and  despair,  his  solemn  resolutions  of 
amendment,  and  his  trust  in  Almighty  God  for 
strength  to  fulfil  them,  his  eloquence  rose  to  the  most 
thrilling  sublimity. 

"  For  myself,"  said  he,  in  conclusion,  "  I  would  have 
asked  nothing — hoped  nothing.  I  would  have  buried 
in  the  deepest  solitude  the  memory  of  my  shame. 
But  I  have  children — a  daughter  worthy  of  a  better 
fate.  For  her  sake  I  solicit  the  restoration  of  that 
confidence  I  have  so  justly  forfeited — the  birthright 
I  have  so  shamefully  sold.  Low  as  I  have  sunk,  I 
I  feel  by  the  effort  I  have  this  moment  made,  that  the 
indwelling  Deity  has  not  yet  quite  forsaken  this  pol- 
luted temple.  I  am  still  capable  of  being  master  of 
myself,  and  with  God's  help  I  will  be  so.  I  ask  not 
for  the  hand  of  fellowship  aud  friendship.  I  want 
it  not  till  time  shall  have  proved  the  sincerity  of 
my  reformation,  and  purified  from  defilement  the 
drunkard's  name." 

Here  every  hand  was  simultaneusly  extended,  in 
token  of  reviving  confidence.  Some  grasped  his  in 


376  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

silence  and  tears — others  fervently  bid  him  God- 
speed, and  promised  him  encouragement,  sympathy 
and  patronage. 

The  introduction  of  a  household  scene — more  than 
a  twelve-month  after  this — will  close  the  history  of 
The  Drunkard's  Daughter.  Mr.  Franklin  was  seate<f 
by  his  own  fireside,  reading;  and  when  he  raised  his 
clear,  dark  eye  from  the  book,  and  cast  it  on  the 
domestic  group  at  his  side,  you  could  read  in  his  un- 
troubled glance,  quietude,  self-respect,  and  confidence. 
The  red  signet  of  intemperance  was  swept  from  his 
noble  brow;  every  look  bore  witness  to  his  intel- 
lectual and  moral  regeneration.  Kate  sat  near  him — 
she,  who,  in  the  hands  of  God,  had  been  made  the  in- 
strument of  his  salvation— bearing  on  her  youthful 
and  lovely  person  a  sad  memento  of  her  father's  sin. 
Her  left  hand  lay  useless  in  her  lap ;  its  sinews  had 
been  contracted  by  the  fires  she  smothered,  when 
snatching  her  mother  from  the  flames,  and  she  was 
destined  to  carry  through  life  a  witness  of  filial  hero- 
ism and  devotion.  But  her  right  hand  was  elapsed  in 
that  of  Harry  Blake,  who,  sanctioned  by  parental 
authority,  had  sought  and  received  her  wedded  vows. 
Kate  refused  for  a  long  time  to  assume  the  sacred  du  • 
ties  of  a  wife,  conscious  of  her  impaired  usefulness, 
but  Harry  pleaded  most  eloquently,  and  Harry's 
father  declared  that  he  considered  the  cause  of  her 
dependence  as  a  mark  of  glory  and  honor.  He  had 
forbidden  his  son  to  claim  alliance  with  a  degraded 
name,  but  Kate  had  proved,  during  her  sojourn  in  his 
dwelling,  that  a  daughter's  virtues  could  redeem  a 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  377 

father's  shame.  Kate  soon  learned  to  be  reconciled  to 
a  misfortune,  which  only  endeared  her  the  more  to 
the  hearts  of  her  friends.  She  forgot  to  mourn  over 
her  physical  dependence,  in  a  father's  and  husband's 
devoted  love.  But,  though  dependent,  she  was  not 
passive.  She  scared  in  all  their  intellectual  pursuits, 
read  for  them,  wrote  for  them,  when  weary  from  pro- 
fessional toils,  and  all  that  her  right  hand  found  to  do, 
"  she  did  diligently  and  in  order."  She  was  their  in- 
spiring companion,  their  modest  counsellor,  their 
spiritual  friend. 

There  was  one  more  figure  added  to  this  domestic 
scene.  A  fair-haired  child  sat  on  Mr.  Franklin's  knee, 
and  twisted  her  chubby  fingers  in  his  still  raven  hair. 
It  was  the  child  once  cradled  on  the  snowy  bed,  whose 
blooming  cheeks  and  bright  lips  corresponded  more 
with  the.  rose-bud,  than  the  snow-drop,  the  pet  name  she 
bore. 

"  Let  no  man  say,  when  he  is  tempted,  I  am  tempted 
of  God,"  or  having  once  yielded  to  the  power  of  the 
tempter,  that,  like  the  giant  slumbering  in  the  lap  of 
Delilah,  he  cannot  break  the  green  withs  with  which 
his  passions  have  bound  him,  and  find  in  after  years 
the  shorn  locks  of  his  glory  clustering  once  more 
around  his  brow. 


878  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 


$t%r  Ptrij,  %  Cntjjolit. 

THE  history  of  Father  Hilario  is  not  a  tale  of  fiction? 
invented  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  the  reader.  It  has 
its  foundation  in  truth,  and  needs  no  false  auxiliaries 
to  enhance  its  affecting  interest.  Imagination  may 
have  slightly  embellished  some  of  the  minor  incidents 
of  his  life,  but  his  character  stands  forth  in  the  simple 
majesty  of  reality,  and  the  decorations  of  fancy,  like 
the  light  garland  thrown  round  the  marble  bust,  could 
neither  change  its  noble  lineaments  nor  exalt  its  classic 

beauty.    The  beautiful  village  of  L ,  situated  in 

one  of  the  loveliest  regions  of  Spanish  Flanders,  was 
the  residence  of  this  pure  and  holy  minded  Catholic. 
It  was  not  the  place  of  his  nativity,  nor  has  tradition 
told  the  land  of  his  birth,  or  the  events  of  his  earlier 
years.  He  came  to  the  peaceful  valley,  commissioned 
to  watch  over  the  souls  of  the  people,  and  to  break 
to  them  the  bread  of  Heaven.  They  received  with 
enthusiasm  a  pastor,  who  seemed  anointed  by  the 
Deity  itself  for  his  divine  office.  There  was  a  silent 
acknowledgment  in  every  eye  that  beheld  him,  that  he 
was  a  being  of  superior  order,  apparently  moulded  of 
purer  clay,  and  fitted  for  nobler  purposes  than  the 
grosser  multitude.  At  first  there  was  more  awe  than 
affection  in  the  feelings  he  inspired.  From  his  habits 
of  rigorous  self  denial,  his  air  of  deep  devotion,  his 
love  of  hermit  solitude,  they  regarded  him  rather  as  a 
saint  than  a  man.  It  seemed  that  he  held  high  and 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  379 

invisible  communion  with  nature  in  her  secret  places, 
her  pathless  woods,  her  virgin  bowers,  and  by  the 
banks  of  her  silent  streams.  So  constant  were  his 
solitary  excursions,  he  was  called  the  wanderer  of  the 
ibrest,  or  sometimes  by  a  holier  appellation,  the  angel 
of  the  grove.  Some  children  once,  urged  by  the  rest- 
less curiosity  of  childhood,  traced  his  path  ami  con- 
cealed themselves  in  a  thick  cluster  of  trees,  where 
they  could  watch  his  movements  unperceived.  Scarcely 
able  to  repress  their  glee  at  the  success  of  the  juvenile 
scheme,  their  young  eyes  pierced  through  the  inter- 
vening foliage,  but  mirth  was  chastened  into  awe, 
when  they  beheld  him  prostrate  on  his  kness,  his  locked 
hands  lifted  towards  heaven,  and  an  expression  in  his 
upturned  eyes  so  deep  and  solemn,  as  to  strike  them 
with  superstitious  dread.  They  imagined  they  saw  a 
halo  round  his  brow,  such  as  encircled  the  heads  of 
their  tutelar  saints,  and  ever  afterwards  they  designated 
him  as  the  angel  of  the  grove.  There  was  one  of  this 
young  group,  on  whom  the  impression  made  by  this 
glimpse  of  holiness  was  ineffaceable.  Whenever  she 
bent  in  prayer  by  her  parent's  knee,  or  at  the  altar  of 
her  God,  that  kneeling  form  and  upturned  brow,  in- 
vested with  such  beatific  radiance,  rose  between  her 
and  the  heaven  to  which  her  orisons  were  addressed, 
till  she  associated  it  with  her  every  idea  of  that  invisi- 
ble glory  which  no  eye  can  see  and  live. 

Father  Hilario  was  gradually  looked  upon  as  some 
thing  more  approachable  and  human.  The  children, 
who  had  been  terrified  by  his  appearance  of  unearthly 
sanctity,  became  accustomed  to  the  benign  expression 


38C  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

of  his  countenance,  as  they  met  him  in  their  daily 
walks,  and,  won  by  the  omnipotent  charm  of  goodness, 
would  often  forsake  their  sports,  gather  round  him 
in  his  solitude,  and  listen  in  breathless  silence, 
while  he  talked  to  them  of  the  God  who  made,  ancf 
the  Saviour  who  redeemed  them.  Sometimes  with  a 
gush  of  tenderness,  that  seemed  irrepressible,  he  would 
take  them  in  his  arms,  and  weep  over  them  tears  as 
gentle  as  those  which  the  mother  sheds  over  her  new- 
born babe.  They  knew  not  the  fountain  of  his  tears, 
but  they  had  an  intuitive  conviction  that  they  were 
holy  drops,  and  like  the  unconscious  flower,  which 
opens  its  chalice  to  the  dew,  each  innocent  heart  drank 
in  their  heavenly  influence.  The  children  repeated  in 
their  homes  the  words  of  Father  Hilario.  They  said 
his  voice  was  sweet  as  the  first  notes  of  the  birds  in 
the  spring ;  that  his  eyes  were  gentle,  and  as  bright 
as  the  sun  when  he  looks  over  the  western  hills. 
Parents  followed  the  steps  of  their  children,  and  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  man  of  God,  listening  with  childlike 
docility,  while  he  pointed  out  to  them  that  luminous 
path,  which  shines  up  through  the  darkness  of  earth, 
to  the  regions  of  perfect  day.  The  aged  sought  his 
instructions,  and  it  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  many 
a  head,  hoary  with  the  snows  of  time,  bent  meekly 
before  him,  who  convinced  them  their  white  locks 
were  a  crown  of  glory,  if  bowed  in  penitence  and  hu- 
mility at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  Profaneness  sealed  its 
bold  lips  in  the  presence  of  a  being  so  immaculate. 
Scepticism  abandoned  its  doubts,  as  it  looked  upon  one 
who  seemed  the  embodied  spirit  of  that  religion,  at- 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  381 

tested  by  the  blood  of  martyred  saints,  and  Christi- 
anity itself  appeared,  arrayed  in  new  and  renovated 
charms. 

Was  Father  Hilario  old — and  were  those  silver  cords 
which  bind  us  to  earth  beginning  to  loosen,  that  he 
thus  offered  himself  a  living  sacrifice  unto  God?  No ! 
he  was  still  in  the  glowing  prime  of  manhood ;  and, 
as  if  the  Creator  had  willed,  in  this  instance,  to  unite 
the  perfection  of  the  material  and  spiritual  beauty,  he 
had  formed  him  in  his  divinest  mould.  Had  the  soul 
been  enshrined  in  a  meaner  temple,  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned if  it  had  ever  attracted  so  many  worshippers, 
and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  some,  who  came  to  offer 
incense  to  the  Creator,  paid  as  deep  a  homage  to  the 
creature,  so  nobly  adorned.  It  has  been  said  by  one 
of  his  cotemporaries,  that  there  never  was  a  more  im- 
posing or  interesting  figure  than  Father  Hilario  pre- 
sented when  he  stood  before  the  altar  in  his  robes  o^ 
priesthood,  apparently  unconscious  of  every  eye,  save 
that  which  is  unseen,  his  sable  hair,  shading  a  brow 
of  marble  purity — a  brow  where  devotion  sat  en- 
throned, unmolested  by  the  demons  of  earth-born 
passion.  It  was  even  'averred  by  some,  and  tha 
remark  was  uttered  with  reverence,  that  they  could 
trace  a  striking  resemblance  between  the  officiating 
priest  and  the  features  of  the  Master  whom  he  served, 
whose  lineaments  were  emblazoned  by  the  altar's 
sacred  lights.  There  was,  indeed,  a  similitude.  Like 
that  divine  Master,  he  was  destined  to  bow  beneath 
the  cross  of  human  suffering,  and  to  drain  to  its  dregs 
the  cup  of  agony  and  humiliation. 


382  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

Years,  however,  passed  on  in  this  blessed  tranquility. 
We  spoke  of  one  child,  on  whom  the  impression  made 
by  the  glimpse  of  Father  Hilario  in  the  fervency  of 
prayer,  was  deep  and  enduring.  That  child,  then 
older  than  her  juvenile  companions,  was  now  in  her 
girlhood,  and  was  acknowldged,  even  by  her  rivals,  the 

fairest  flower  in  the  gardens  of  L .     Her  real  name 

has  not  been  preserved  in  the  annals  of  this  history. 
It  matters  not — we  will  call  her  Leila.  The  word 
conveys  an  idea  of  loveliness  and  fragility ;  and  is 
appropriate  to  her,  who,  like  the  lily  of  the  field,  waa 
transcendent  in  delicacy  and  sweetness.  There  was 
something  about  this  young  maiden  so  different  from 
the  usual  characteristics  of  her  age,  that  the  eye  of 
the  stranger  involuntarily  rested  on  her  face,  and  read 
there  the  indications  of  a  higher,  and  perchance,  a 
sadder  destiny,  than  that  of  her  blooming  fellows, 
she  was  beautiful,  but  pale  as  the  wild  flower  to  which 
we  just  resembled  her,  save  when  some  sudden  emo- 
tion passed  into  her  mind,  the  lightning  that  plays  on  the 
summer's  evening  cloud,  is  not  more  brilliant  or  evan- 
escent than  the  colours  that  then  flitted  over  her  cheek. 
Her  eyes — she  seemed  born  to  remind  one  of  all  that 
is  lovely  and  perishing — had  the  deep  hue  of  the 
mountain  violet ;  and,  like  their  modest  emblem,  had 
a  natural  bending  towards  the  earth ;  but  when  they 
were  directed  towards  heaven,  as  they  oftentimes  were, 
there  was  a  holy  illumination  diffused  over  her  face, 
like  that  which  is  seen  on  the  countenance  of  the 
virgin  mother,  when  she  is  represented  as  listening  to 
the  songs  of  the  angels.  She  was  an  only  child,  and 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  383 

her  parents,  as  they  saw  her  in  her  innocence  and 
beauty,  shrinking  from  the  gaities  and  amusements  of 
youth,  and  devoting  herself  to  meditation  and  prayer, 
felt  a  kind  of  prophetic  gloom  steal  over  their  minds, 
and,  though  they  never  gave  utterance  to  their  fore- 
bodings, they  feared  that  one  so  fair  and  spiritual 
would  not  long  be  suffered  to  dwell  on  earth.  An 
unpolluted  blossom,  the  heavenly  instructions  of 
Father  Hilario,  were  the  sun  and  dew  of  her  exist- 
ence. While  her  more  joyous  companions  followed 
the  impulses  of  their  blithe  spirits,  she  sat,  a  young 
disciple,  at  the  feet  of  this  Gamaliel ;  and  when  he 
talked  to  her  of  divine  things,  till  her  soul  kindled 
into  ecstasy,  she  was  unconscious  that  one  spark  of 
earthly  fire  mingled  with  the  flame  that  was  glowing 
within.  She  would  have  shrunk  with  horror  from 
the  sacrilegious  thought  of  loving  the  anointed  of  tho 
Lord,  the  Apostle,  the  Saint — she  believed  herself 
superior  to  human  passion,  and  when  sought  in  wed- 
lock, for  young  as  she  was,  she  had  already  inspired 
in  others,  what  she  imagined  she  was  destined  never 
herself  to  feel ;  she  would  answer  that  "  she  wished  to 
be  the  bride  of  her  Eedeemer  only."  Alas !  she  knew 
not  that  she  had  placed  an  earthly  idol  in  the  sanc- 
tuary of  her  heart,  that  temple  which  she  had  solemnly 
dedicated  to  the  living  God.  But  the  veil  was  yet  to 
be  rent  away,  and  the  temple  to  become  desolate  and 
dim.  Before  the  further  development  of  the  story,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  introduce  two  characters,  who 
were  conspicuous  actors  in  some  of  its  darkest  scenes. 
When  the  inhabitants  of  L were  first  placed 


884  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

under  the  pastoral  guardianship  of  Father  Hilario, 
there  were  two  youths,  who  had  gained  "bad  emi- 
nence" in  society,  as  rebels  against  its  salutary  restraints. 
Murillo,  the  eldest,  had  one  of  those  subtle,  designing 
spirits,  which  loved  to  work  in  ambush,  to  hurl  the 
shafts  of  mischief  from  behind  some  sheltering  cloud, 
and  laugh  at  the  consternation  they  excited.  Guido 
was  bold  and  lawless.  He  would  stand  forth  in  the 
broad  sunshine  and  commit  the  most  daring  depreda- 
tions, entirely  reckless  of  their  consequences.  Yet 
there  was  a  mixture  of  openness  and  generosity  which 
often  exerted  their  redeeming  influence  on  his  char- 
acter. Unfortunately,  exposed  to  the  evil  example  ot 
Murillo,  he  suffered  from  that  moral  contagion  which 
the  purest  and  firmest  have  been  unable  to  resist.  The 
inventive  wickedness  of  the  former  exercised  a  mastery 
over  him,  which  he  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge,  but 
to  which  he  involuntarily  yielded.  About  the  period 
to  which  we  allude,  they  entered  by  stealth,  into  the 
church,  and  desecrated  the  altar,  by  the  most  unhal- 
lowed hieroglyphics ;  then  mingling  with  the  throng 
who  came  to  worship  there,  watched  with  eager  scru- 
tiny the  effect  of  their  impious  ingenuity.  Father 
Hilario  felt  the  insult  as  a  Christian,  rather  than  as  a 
man.  He  saw  every  eye  directed  to  the  offending 
characters,  and,  wishing  to  give  an  awful  lesson  to  the 
perpetrators  of  such  a  crime,  he  came  forward,  with  a 
majesty  he  had  never  before  assumed,  and  in  the  name 
of  outraged  Christianity,  commanded  the  authors  of 
the  deed,  if  within  the  reach  of  his  voice,  to  cast  them- 
selves before  that  very  altar  they  had  profaned,  and, 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  385 

tears  of  repentance,  wash  out  the  foul  stains  they 
had  made.  Guido  felt  as  if  thunderstruck  by  the 
unexpected  appeal.  The  sacrilege  of  the  act,  for  the 
first  time,  glared  upon  his  conscience,  and  following 
the  impulse  of  his  headstrong  and  ungovernable 
nature,  he  forced  his  passage  through  the  crowd,  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  before  Father  Hilario,  and  declared 
himself  one  of  the  offenders.  He  did  not  betray  his 
comrade;  but  Murillo  was  too  notorious  not  to  be 
known  as  his  accomplice.  Murillo,  however,  asserted 
his  innocence,  with  a  countenance  so  imperturable,  and 
a  voice  so  firm,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  doubt  his 
truth.  When  the  boys  next  encountered  each  other 
on  the  village  green,  Murillo  assailed  the  penitent  with 
every  expression  of  scorn  and  indignation. 

"  You  have  not  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  you,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  pitiful  coward  that  you  are,  to  be  fright- 
ened by  the  threats  of  a  canting  priest.  You  have  wit 
enough  in  your  brains  for  the  invention  of  mischief, 
but  not  courage  enough  in  your  soul  to  carrry  it  into 
execution." 

"  I  had  rather  be  a  coward  than  a  liar,"  retorted 
Guido,  contemptuously.  "I  tell  you  to  your  face, 
Murillo,  you  are  both ;  and  I  desire  no  more  fellow- 
ship with  one  whom  I  despise."  He  turned  his  back 
as  he  spoke,  and  walked  several  paces  from  the 
exasperated  Murillo,  who  pursued  him  with  bitter 
imprecations. 

"  You  are  a  base-born  wretch,  and  you  know  it," 
cried  Murillo,  "  deny  it  if  you  can — resent  it  if  you 
dare." 

24 


356  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   TUB 

Guido  felt  the  taunt  to  his  heart's  core.  There  was 
a  mystery  attending  his  birth,  which  made  his  claim  to 
legitimacy  somewhat  doubtful ;  but,  as  his  mother  had 
expiated  her  frailty  with  her  life,  the  shade  that  dark- 
ened her  fame  did  not  long  obscure  the  opening  man- 
hood of  her  son.  There  were  few  who  were  unfeeling 
enough  to  stigmatize,  in  his  presence,  the  parent  who 
was  now  beyond  the  reach  of  human  obloquy  and 
shame.  With  flashing  eyes  and  boiling  blood,  Guido 
turned  upon  the  insulter,  and,  seizing  a  stone  which 
unfortunately  lay  within  his  reach,  he  dashed  it  into 
his  face.  Murillo  fell  to  the  ground  apparently  lifeless, 
while  the  blood  issued  in  torrents  from  his  wounded 
head.  Guido  stood  over  him,  aghast  at  the  conse- 
quences of  his  rashness.  He  believed  himself  a  mur- 
derer, and  gazed  in  agony  of  remorse  and  horror  upon 
the  pale,  bleeding  form  extended  before  him.  The 
wound,  however,  did  not  prove  mortal.  After  suffer- 
ing excruciating  tortures,  and  lingering  long  in  a  state 
of  painful  debility,  he  was  at  last  restored  to  his  wonted 
vigour.  But  one  of  his  eyes — and  they  were  singularly 
bright — was  extinguished  for  ever,  and  a  terrible  scar 
on  the  temple  disfigured  the  beauty  of  a  face,  which, 
in  spite  of  the  absence  of  every  moral  charm,  was  once 
eminently  handsome.  It  may  well  be  helieved  that 
Murillo,  with  his  vindictive  and  irascible  temper,  never, 
in  his  heart,  forgave  the  one  who  had  thus  marred  hia 
features,  and  cheated  them  "  of  their  fair  proportions." 
He  had  been  particularly  vain  of  the  fiery  brilliancy 
of  his  eyes,  and  he  felt  that  the  glory  of  his  counte- 
nance was  departed,  and  a  blighting  mark  set  upon  him 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  887 

to  make  him  an  object  of  pity  or  derision  to  a  gazing 
world.  As  the  young  tree,  riven  by  the  lightning's 
stroke,  stands  scathed  and  barren  in  the  midst  of 
abounding  verdure,  he  remained  gloomy  and  dark  in 
the  social  band,  the  few  generous  affections  with  which 
nature  had  gifted  him,  blasted  by  the  withering  con- 
sciousness of  personal  deformity.  Guido,  whose  bet- 
ter feelings  had  been  awakened  by  the  solemn  admo- 
nitions of  Father  Hilario,  and  whose  remorse  for  the 
injury  he  had  inflicted  was  keen  as  the  resentment  that 
dictated  the  act,  and  lasting  as  its  consequences,  exerted 
every  energy  and  every  art  to  soften  the  hatred  of 
Murillo,  and  indemnify  him  for  the  wrong  he  had 
done,  but  in  vain — years  passed  on,  still  Murillo's  soli- 
tary eye  scowled  indignantly  by  the  grave  of  its  fellow 
whenever  it  turned  upon  the  unfortunate  Guido. 
Another  circumstance  served  to  widen  the  chasm 
which  separated  them.  While  they  were  advancing 
deeper  into  manhood,  the  juvenile  charms  of  Leila 
were  assuming  the  more  seductive  graces  of  woman- 
hood, and  the  hearts  of  both  acknowledged  her  inspi- 
ration. There  was  nothing  strange  in  this.  It  would 
seem  as  natural  to  love,  nay,  as  impossible  not  to  love 
such  a  being  as  Leila,  as  to  look  upon  a  rose  in  the 
dewy  freshness  of  its  bloom,  without  wishing  to  inhale 
its  fragrance  and  gather  it  from  its  bower.  Her  perfect 
unconsciousness  of  her  own  loveliness,  her  indifference 
to  admiration,  the  elevation  and  sanctity  of  her  char- 
acter, rendered  it  difficult  for  one  to  address  her  in  the 
language  of  earthly  passion.  But  Guido  emboldened 


388  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

himself  to  declare  the  homage  she  inspired,  though  he 
anticipated  the  denial  she  gave. 

"I  would  devote  myself  to  God,"  she  answered ;  and 
she  looked  so  heavenly  when  she  uttered  the  words,  he 
almost  convinced  himself  he  had  a  second  time  been 
guilty  of  profaneness,  in  aspiring  to  one  so  saintlike 
and  pure.  As  for  Murillo,  his  love  partook  of  all  that 
was  dark  and  fierce  in  a  character,  whose  passions  were 
strong  and  untameable  as  the  elements.  Once,  in  a 
moment  of  uncontrollable  excitement,  he  revealed  to 
her  the  strength  and  depth  of  emotions  he  had  long 
smothered  in  his  breast,  where  they  burned  with  the 
intenseness  of  nature's  central  fires.  She  shrunk  from 
him  in  terror  she  had  not  the  power  to  conceal,  and  his 
proud  heart  chafed  almost  to  madness  in  his  bosom. 
He  remembered  the  promise  of  his  boyhood,  before 
any  defacing  touch  had  swept  out  the  lines  of  symme- 
try and  beauty,  and  he  cursed  Guido  in  his  secret  soul, 

as  the  author  of  his  misery  and  degradation. 

•*##  •*##:; 

It  was  the  depth  of  summer.  Every  thing  wore  that 
aspect  of  almost  oppressive  magnificence  and  intensity 
of  hue  peculiar  to  the  season,  which  elicits  the  latent 
glories  of  nature,  while  it  deadens  the  strength  and 
energy  of  man.  The  earth  began  to  pant  for  one  of 
those  liberal  showers,  which  come  down  with  such 
life-giving  influence,  on  the  dry  and  thirsty  plain. 
The  excessive  brightness  of  the  foliage  gradually 
waned,  the  thick  leaves  drooped,  and  hung  languidly 
from  the  branches,  as  if  fainting  for  the  salutary 
moisture  of  the  skies,  while  the  eye,  dazzled  and 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  389 

wearied  by  the  continuous  sunshine,  watched  anxi- 
ously the  faintest  shadow  that  floated  over  the  glow- 
ing horizon,  till  every  glance  beamed  prayer,  that 
the  blessing  of  the  rain  and  the  dew  might  be  borne 
within  its  bosom.  Then  welcome  was  the  forest 
depth,  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  in  the  sultry  land. 
Leila  wandered  through  the  solitudes  she  loved. 
From  her  childhood  she  had  been  accustomed  to  soli- 
tary rambles,  and  her  parents,  with  indulgent  tender- 
ness, allowed  no  restraint  to  be  imposed  upon  her 
inclinations,  confiding  in  the  purity  of  their  origin. 
Mid  the  loneliness  of  nature,  she  held  deep  and  un- 
witnessed intercourse  with  the  mysteries  of  her  own 
heart,  but  its  language  was  inexplicable  to  her  sim- 
plicity. She  could  not  define  the  vague,  restless 
consciousness  of  guilt  which  mingled  with  her  secret 
devotions,  weighed  down  its  spirit  in  its  upward 
flight,  and  spread  a  dimness  over  all  her  dreams  of 
heaven. 

She  sat  in  the  coolness  of  one  of  her  favourite  re- 
treats, unconscious  in  the  shadows  that  surrounded 
her,  of  the  heavy  cloud  that  was  rising,  darkening 
and  rapidly  diffusing  itself  over  the  sky,  till  a  faint 
flash  of  lightning,  quivering  through  the  gloom,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  low,  sullen  roar  of  distant  thunder, 
warned  her  that  the  prayer  of  the  husbandman  was 
about  to  be  answered,  and  a  painful  feeling  of  her 
personal  apprehension  accompanied  the  conviction, 
when  she  thought  of  her  lonely  and  unprotected 
situation.  She  suffered  unconquerable  terrors  in  a 
thunder  storm.  It  was  one  of  those  constitutional 


S9C  COURTSHIP  AN'D   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

weaknesses  which  no  mental  energy  could  overcome. 
When  a  child,  she  believed  this  awful  herald  of  ele- 
mental wrath  was  the  voice  of  the  Ancient  of  Days, 
proclaiming  his  omnipotent  mandates  to  a  hushed  and 
trembling  world;  she  associated  it  with  the  mountain 
that  burned  with  unconsuming  flame,  with  all  the 
most  terrible  manifestations  of  Almighty  power ;  and 
though,  in  after  years,  she  learned  the  sublime  myste- 
ries of  nature,  she  never  forgot  the  impressions  of  her 
childhood.  Almost  powerless  from  dread,  she  en- 
deavoured to  find  her  homeward  path,  while  the 
storm  approached  with  a  rapidity  and  violence,  which 
might  have  shaken  nerves  less  exquisitely  sensitive 
than  hers.  The  lightning  no  longer  ran  in  dazzling 
chains,  on  the  edge  of  the  sky,  but  spread  in  bannered 
pomp  over  the  firmament,  and  the  thunder  came  on, 
in  gathering  peals,  louder,  deeper,  nearer,  till  the  trees 
of  the  forest  shook  in  their  ancient  brotherhood,  and 
the  coeval  rocks  reverberated  fearfully  with  the 
sound. 

Leila  thought  of  the  grove  which  was  consecrated 
in  her  mind  by  the  image  of  Father  Ililario,  which 
even  now  might  be  hallowed  by  his  presence,  and 
though  bewildered  by  fear,  she  sought  it  as  a  city  of 
shelter,  to  which  she  might  fly  and  live.  She  saw  the 
thick  vine  wreaths,  which  hung  in  unpruned  luxu- 
riance over  one  of  the  most  lovely  and  sequestered 
arbours  nature  ever  arched  in  the  wilderness,  for  the 
repose  and  security  of  man.  She  reached  the  en- 
trance, and  glancing  through  the  lattice-work,  woven 
by  the  interlacing  tendrils,  was  arrested  there  by  the 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  391 

object  which  met  her  gaze.  The  same  figure  which, 
years  before,  had  beamed  on.  her  sight,  like  an  angel 
of  peace,  now  knelt  in  the  centre  of  the  grotto,  calm 
amidst  the  warring  elements,  absorbed  in  adoration 
and  prayer,  while  the  lightning  as  it  flashed  through 
the  foliage,  played  around  his  uplifted  brow,  in 
wreaths  of  living  glory.  Leila  trembled  as  she  gazed 
— she  dared  not  to  disturb  his  sublime  confidence  with 
her  wild,  undisciplined  terrors ;  but,  faint  with  fa- 
tigue, dread,  and  a  thousand  undefined  emotions,  she 
leaned  against  the  branches,  with  a  sigh,  heavy,  as  ir- 
repressible. Father  Hilario  heard  that  low  sound, 
though  apparently  insensible  to  the  thunder's  crash. 
No  expression  of  human  suffering  ever  fell  unheeded 
on  his  ear,  and,  turning  to  the  direction  from  whence 
it  proceeded,  he  saw  his  beloved  disciple,  standing  ex- 
hausted and  agitated  before  him — the  deathlike  pale- 
ness of  fear  triumphing  on  her  cheeks  over  the  lilies 
of  nature.  With  an  involuntary  impulse  of  tender- 
ness and  compassion,  he  extended  his  arms  towards 
her,  and  Leila  sunk  into  their  protecting  fold,  with  a 
feeling  like  that  with  which  we  may  suppose  the 
wounded  dove  seeks  the  sheltering  down  of  its 
mother's  wings. 

Father  Hilario  endeavored,  with  the  most  persuasive 
gentleness,  to  infuse  into  her  mind  the  composure  and 
confidence,  arising  from  faith  in  that  Being  who  makes 
the  mightiest  elements  his  vassals,  and  whose  mercy 
is  commensurate  to  his  power.  He  recalled  to  her 
those  many  instances  on  holy  record,  where  the  faith- 
ful had  been  preserved,  and  innocence  left  unharmed, 


892  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

while  the  most  terrible  ministers  of  God's  vengeance 
were  dealing  out  destruction  to  the  rebellious  and 
polluted.  While  he  was  yet  speaking,  an  electrifying 
flash  illuminated  the  grove — the  thunder  burst  in  one 
magnificent  paean  over  the  forest,  and  the  tall  tree,  be- 
neath whose  boughs  the  grotto  was  woven,  stood  with 
its  trunk  shivered  and  scathed,  though  its  green  sum- 
mit seemed  still  unconscious  of  the  desolation  that 
awaited  it.  The  large  rain-drops  now  plashed  on  the 
leaves,  the  wind  bowed  and  twisted  the  branches,  as  if 
anxious  to  open  a  passage  for  the  shower  to  the  pant- 
ing bosom  of  the  earth.  It  came  down  in  deluging 
torrents.  Their  canopy  of  leaves  no  longer  sheltered 
them,  the  vine  was  rent,  the  frail  twigs  scattered  on 
the  blast,  which  every  moment  swept  with  increasing 
violence  over  Father  Hilario  and  his  now  almost  help- 
less charge.  He  vainly  endeavored  to  shield  her  from 
its  fury,  by  wrapping  his  arms  around  her  and  pres- 
sing her  closer  and  closer  to  a  heart  which,  free  from 
the  tumults  of  earthly  passion,  might  well  become  the 
resting-place  of  innocence  and  beauty.  Even  in  that 
hour  of  grandeur  and  horror,  when  the  death -bolts 
where  every  where  hissing  through  the  clouds,  Leila 
felt  a  glow  of  happiness  pervading  her  being,  which 
triumphed  over  the  effects  of  the  chilling  wind  and 
drenching  rain — yet  no  emotion  agitated  her  spotless 
breast,  which  an  incarnate  angel  might  not  have  felt, 
and  gloried  in  acknowledging.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
v/hile  Omnipotence  was  bowing  the  heavens,  and  com- 
ing down  in  all  its  glory  and  majesty,  almost  annihil- 
ating her  very  existence  with  awe,  she  beheld  in  the 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  393 

mild,  religious  eyes,  that  were  looking  down  into  her 
soul,  a  beam  of  heaven's  own  love  and  mercy,  a  blessed 
assurance  that  man  is  never  forgotten  by  the  Almighty, 
and  that  the  low  prayer  of  faith  rises  with  acceptance 
to  his  ear,  high  above  the  din  and  wailing  of  the  tem- 
pest. 

There  was  one  eye  which  witnessed  this  scence — 
it  was  a  solitary  one — and  the  worst  passions  of  which 
our  nature  is  capable,  were  concentrated  in  its  rays. 
Murillo  had  followed  the  steps  of  Leila.  lie  marked 
the  coming  storm,  and  hastened  to  her  accustomed 
haunts,  believing  that  she  would  willingly  seek  a  refuge 
from  its  violence,  even  in  his  sheltering  arms.  Not 
finding  the  object  of  his  search,  he  continued  his  pur- 
suit in  doubt  and  alarm,  till  he  discovered  the  place 
of  her  retreat,  and  saw,  himself  unseen,  all  which  we 
have  just  described.  He  remained  rooted  to  the  spot 
by  a  kind  of  fascination,  which  he  had  not  the  power 
to  dispel.  The  truth  was  revealed  to  him  at  once — 
she  loved  him — she,  this  vestal  beautj-,  who  seemed 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  spheral,  unapproach- 
able light,  she  loved  this  heaven-dedicated  mortal  with 
all  the  ardour  of  woman's  first,  unblighted  affection. 
He  read  it  in  every  expression  of  her  upturned  eye, 
in  the  doubtful  colour  that  momentarily  dyed  her 
cheek,  then  left  it  stainless  in  its  native  whiteness. 
lie  felt  maddened  by  this  discovery.  He  had  always 
looked  upon  Guido,  whom  he  had  sworn  to  hate,  as 
a  rival,  and  feared  his  success;  but  Father  Hilario,  a 
man  whose  age  so  much  transcended  hers,  whose 
profession  excluded  him  frum  the  world's  sympathies 


894:  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE ;    OR,   THE 

—it  was  incredible.  He  could  not,  however,  but 
acknowledge  to  himself,  that  if  Father  Hilario  had 
passed  the  morning  of  youth,  time  had  not  cast  one 
shade  over  the  meridian  of  his  manhood,  and  while 
he  gazed  upon  him,  as  he  knelt  in  the  storm,  thus 
tenderly  supporting  and  cherishing  the  only  being 
who  had  ever  kindled  a  sentiment  of  love  in  his  own 
dark  bosom,  he  was  forced  to  confess,  that  man  never 
had  a  nobler  representative. 

It  is  a  bootless  and  unprofitable  task,  that  of 
attempting  to  describe  the  unfathomable  hell  of  a 
human  heart,  delivered  up  to  the  unresisted  mastery 
of  its  own  evil  passions.  It  is  on  the  consequences  of 
crime  that  the  moralist  rests  his  hope.  These,  called 
up  by  the  wizard  wand  of  conscience,  glide  and  glide 
before  the  eyes  of  the  pale  delinquent,  like  the  accus- 
ing phantoms,  in  the  night  vision  of  the  guilty  and 
aspiring  Thane. 

The  storm  subsided — the  heavy  clouds  rolled  to- 
wards the  eastern  horizon,  and  the  covenant  token  of 
mercy  arched  its  deepening  radiance  on  the  retiring 
vapours.  Father  Hilario  pointed  out  to  Leila  this 
glorious  reflection  of  the  Creator's  smile,  and  dwelt 
upon  that  memorable  era,  when  it  first  bent  in  beauty 
over  the  sinking  waters  of  the  deluge.  Every  object 
in  their  homeward  path  elicited  from  him  a  lesson  of 
gratitude  and  love.  Leila  listened,  but  not  to  the 
rich  melodies  of  nature,  whteh  were  now  breathing 
and  gushing  around  them,  in  the  music  of  waters,  the 
symphony  of  birds,  and  the  mellow  intonations  of  the 
distant  thunder,  that  rolled  at  intervals  its  organ-nutcs 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  395 

on  the  gale.  She  heard  "but  one  sound  in  the  mag- 
nificent chorus — the  voice  of  Father  Hilario. 

Had  Murillo  never  stolen,  like  a  serpent  as  he  was, 
to  that  bower  of  shelter,  and  witnessed  emotions, 
whose  purity,  the  baseness  and  corruption  of  his 
nature  could  never  conceive,  and  which  he  imagined 
partook  of  the  unholy  ardour  of  his  own  feelings,  her 
innocent  heart  would  perhaps  never  have  known  the 
pangs  of  self-upbraiding,  which  afterwards  so  cruelly 
martyred  its  peace.  He  watched  his  opportunity  of 
meeting  her  alone.  The  spell  which  had  enthralled 
him  in  her  presence  was  now  dissolved.  He  loved 
her  still,  but  he  no  longer  feared ;  for  the  secret  of 
which  he  was  the  master,  placed  her  more  upon  a 
level  with  himself,  and  brought  her  down  from  that 
high  mount  of  holiness,  upon  which  his  imagination 
had  exalted  her.  He  was  resolved  to  humble  her 
by  accusing  her  to  her  face  of  the  sacrilege  of  which 
she  was  guilty. 

"  Yes,  Leila,"  cried  he,  stung  by  the  cold,  averted 
air  with  which  she  met  his  proffered  civilities,  "  I 
know  it  all.  It  is  not  that  your  heart  is  wedded  to 
heaven,  that  you  turn  from  the  gaities  of  youth,  and 
scorn  the  vows  of  the  young  and  the  brave.  You 
love  Father  Hilario.  You  cannot,  you  dare  not  deny 
it.  All  that  you  have  inspired  in  me,  false  girl,  you 
feel  for  him.  I  saw  you,  Leila,  when  you  thought  no 
eye  but  his  was  on  you,*folded  to  his  bosom,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  grove,  the  crimson  of  passion  glowing 
on  your  check,  and  its  lightnings,  brilliant  as  thoso 


S96  COUKTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE:    OR,   THE 

which  illuminated  the  sky,  kindling  in  your  eyes.    In 
vain"— 

He  paused,  for  he  was  terrified  by  the  effect  of  his 
words ;  she  stood  as  if  smitten  by  some  avenging 
angel.  Every  drop  of  blood  seemed  to  have  deserted 
its  wonted  channel,  for  it  is  scarcely  exaggerated  to  say, 
that  her  face  and  lips  were  white  as  marble,  and  they 
looked  as  deadly  cold ;  while  her  eyes,  which  dark- 
ened in  their  intensity,  were  riveted  on  his,  with  a 
look  of  wild  supplication,  which  would  have  melted  a 
less  indurated  heart.  The  truth  burst  upon  her  like 
a  thunderbolt,  and  it  crushed  her  to  the  earth.  Had 
it  been  whispered  her  in  the  dim  shadows  of  night, 
by  a  mother's  gentle  voice,  it  would  have  come  over 
her,  even  then,  with  a  blasting  power,  but  to  have  it 
break  upon  her  thus — the  unfortunate  girl  sank  down 
upon  the  fragment  of  a  rock,  near  the  spot  where  they 
stood,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  wept  in 
agony.  Murillo's  terror  subsided  at  the  sight  of  her 
tears,  and  he  went  on  remorsely  widening  the  wound 
he  had  made. 

"  Think  not,"  he  continued,  "  no  longer  to  deceive 
the  world.  It  shall  know  the  latent  fire  which  burns 
beneath  the  ice  of  sanctity,  with  which  thou  hast  en- 
circled thyself.  Father  Hilario,  too  !  Vile  wolf,  who 
has  clothed  himself  in  shepherd's  garb  !" — 

"Forbear!"  almost  shrieked  Leila,  at  these  words; 
"  oh !  never  by  thought,  or  word,  or  look" — she 
stopped  despairingly,  she  knew  not  in  what  language 
to  vindicate  the  character  of  Father  Hilario  from  the 
charges  of  his  adversary.  She  folt  that  she  was  in  his 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  397 

power,  and  casting  herself  on  her  knees  before  him, 
she  supplicated  for  mercy.  "  You  may  destroy  me. 
Murillo,  /merit  it.  I  have  deceived  myself  and  the 
world ;  /  am  guilty  beyond  forgiveness ;  but  Father 
Ililario — he  lives  only  for  the  God  who  has  anointed 
him.  Oh !  if  through  me  he  should  suffer" — her  joined 
hands  and  beseeching  eyes  finished  what  her  bloodless 
lips  in  vain  endeavoured  to  articulate.  Murillo  gazed 
with  malignant  triumph  upon  his  victim.  He  had 
wrapped  his  coil  around  her,  and  she  might  seek,  with 
unavailing  struggles,  to  extricate  herself  from  the  folds. 
But  whatever  was  his  purpose  he  chose  to  dissemble, 
and  raising  her,  whom  he  had  so  deeply  humiliated, 
from  the  ground,  he  assured  her  that  her  secret  should 
be  safe  in  his  possession,  and  her  feeling  sacred  in  h>s 
eyes.  He  solicited  her  pardon  for  the  extravagancies 
to  which  love  and  jealousy  had  urged  him,  in  terms 
so  mild  and  submissive,  and  begged  to  be  admitted  to 
her  friendship  and  sympathy,  with  such  lowly  defer- 
ence, it  is  not  strange  that  he  deceived  one  so  guileless 
and  confiding. 

He  left  her — left  the  dart  to  rankle  where  he  threw 
it  and — it  did  rankle.  Never  more  did  she  meet  with 
an  untroubled  eye,  the  calm  and  heavenly  glance  of 
Father  Ililario.  No  longer  did  she  sit  at  his  feet  with 
the  sweet  docility  of  childhood,  the  deep  joy  of  her 
soul  mirrored  on  her  brow.  Father  Hilario  was 
grieved  at  her  estrangement ;  he  feared  that  the  flower 
lie  had  so  carefully  reared  for  Paradise  was  about  to 
lavish  its  bloom*  and  its  fragrance  on  the  perishing 
hings  of  this  world ;  but  when  he  gently  reproved, 


3!)3  COURTSHIP   AND    MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

her  for  her  coolness,  she  would  only  turn  from  mm 
silently  and  wept.  Unhappy  Leila !  the  fairest  and 
purest  of  earth  are  oft  devoted  to  the  saddest  destiny ; 
and  what  doom  more  sad  than  to  bo  condemned  to 
the  conviction  that  the  inspirations  of  virtue  and  sen- 
sibility are  sacrilege  and  guilt  ? 

Father  Hilario  sat  one  evening,  as  he  was  wont  to 
do,  in  a  chamber  which  he  had  consecrated  to  devo- 
tion, surrounded  by  the  authors  he  loved,  and  the 
saints  whom  he  adored.  Alreadythe  waning  sun  dif- 
fused that  golden,  religious  light  through  the  apart- 
ment, which  falls  with  such  soothing,  solemnizing  in- 
fluence on  the  soul  of  the  devotee.  He  sat  in  spir- 
itual abstraction,  an  illuminated  missal  open  before 
him,  and  the  holy  emblom  of  his  faith  placed  so  as  to 
receive  the  gilding  of  the  western  rays.  The  sound 
of  hasty  footsteps,  and  the  confused  murmur  of  voices 
approaching  this  hitherto  unmolested  retreat,  roused 
him  from  his  devout  meditations.  The  door  was  vio- 
lently thrown  open,  and  a  party  of  citizens,  whose 
looks  were  indicative  of  horror  and  alarm,  entered 
the  apartment. 

"What  means  this  tumult?"  exclaimed  Father 
Ililario;  and  he  feared  some  calamitous  event  had 
filled  the  village  with  consternation.  The  man  who 
seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  group,  advanced  witr 
an  air  of  mingled  authority  and  trepidation,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Father  Hilario,  ad- 
dressed him  in  the  startling  words:  "You  are  our 
prisoner,  Father  Hilario.  We  arrest  you  by  order  of 
the  chief  magistrate." 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  399 

"  Me  I  your  minister  ?"  exclaimed  Father  Hilario, 
in  dignified  yet  sorrowful  amazement.  "  Of  what  am 
I  accused  ?" 

"  Of  murder!"  cried  the  officer,  and  the  words  ware 
mattered  by  the  rest  of  the  party,  in  tones  that  seem- 
ed to  be  afraid  of  their  own  echoes.  Father  Hilario 
looked  steadfastly  on  the  faces  of  each  to  see  if  he 
were  not  surrounded  by  a  band  of  maniacs.  "With 
added  solemnity  he  repeated  the  question,  and  received 
the  same  awful  reply.  A  dead  silence  succeeded  this 
reiteration,  when,  gathering  himself  up  with  inde- 
scribable majesty,  he  commanded  them  to  depart.  The 
indignation  of  outraged  manhood  towered  over  the 
long-suffering  meekness  of  Christianity. 

"  Ye  know  me  1"  he  cried,  and  his  usual  mild  voice 
was  fearful  in  its  power.  "  Ye  know  that  I  am  not  a 
man  of  blood.  I  have  toiled,  wept,  and  prayed  for  your 
salvation.  The  delegate  of  my  divine  Master,  I  have 
broken  for  you,  with  unpolluted  hands,  the  bread  of 
life.  I  have  followed  your  paths  in  sickness  and  sor- 
row, binding  up  the  wounds  of  human  suffering,  lift- 
ing the  bruised  reed,  and  holding  the  lamp  of  faith 
over  the  valley  of  death.  I  have — but  oh !  perverse 
generation,  is  this  your  return  ?"  He  stopped,  over- 
"oowered  by  the  depth  of  his  emotion,  while  tears, 
which  only  agony  could  have  drawn  forth,  gushed 
from  his  eyes.  The  men  looked  at  each  other  as  if 
in  shame  and  fear,  for  the  errand  they  had  under- 
taken. The  officer  said,  "it  is  a  most  painful  task, 
which  had  devolved  upon  him,  but  that  duty  was  im- 
perative, and  must  be  obeyed."  "  Who  is  my  accu- 


400  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

ser?"  demanded  the  victim.  "  I,"  answered  a  deep 
voice  from  behind,  and  Murillo  advanced  in  front  of 
the  group.  His  face  was  cold  and  calm,  and  his  man- 
ner firm  and  self-possessed.  He  spoke  as  a  man  con- 
scious of  the  import  of  his  words,  and  ready  to  meet 
their  consequences.  "  I  accuse  thee  of  the  murder  of 
Guido.  /  saw  the  deed.  /  saw  the  dagger  in  his 
bloody  breast.  Cold  on  the  earth  he  lies.  I  accuse 
thee,  in  the  face  of  God  and  of  man,  as  the  perpetra- 
tor of  the  crime."  While  Murillo  was  speaking, 
Father  Hilario  resumed  his  composure,  though  a 
deeper  shade  of  solemnity  settled  on  his  brow. 
"  Search,"  cried  he,  "  for  the  proofs  of  your  accusa- 
tion. Every  recess  is  open  to  your  scrutiny." 

He  unfolded  the  doors  to  their  examination;  but 
what  words  can  speak  the  consternation  of  Father 
Hilario,  when,  as  they  passed  into  the  ante-chamber, 
they  lifted  his  surplice,  which  he  had  left  there  as  was 
his  custom  when  he  retired  to  the  inner  apartment, 
and  found  it  all  dabbled  with  blood ;  even  the  print 
of  gory  fingers,  damning  proof  of  the  recent  death- 
struggle,  was  visible  on  its  ample  folds.  A  dagger, 
too,  clotted  with  fresh  blood  gouts,  fell  to  the  floor,  as 
the  officer  of  justice  displayed  the  ensanguined  rai- 
ment, and  there  it  lay  "  in  form  and  shape  as  palpa- 
ble "  as  the  air  drawn  dagger,  which  gleamed  before 
the  eyes  of  the  Scottish  regicide.  Father  Hilario 
staggered  back  against  the  wall,  his  ashy  lips  quiver- 
ing with  unutterable  horror,  his  hair  actually  recoiling 
from  his  brow,  as  if  instinct  with  the  spirit  within.  It 
was  a  scene  which  an  Angelo  would  have  trembled 


JOYS   AXT>  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN*   LIFE.  401 

with  ecstasy  to  behold — and  which  he  would  have 
fixed  upon  his  canvas  in  imperishable  colours.  There 
was  a  look  of  ghastly  excitement  on  every  face,  save 
one,  such  as  is  seen  at  the  midnight  conflagration, 
when  the  pallidness  of  terror  is  lighted  up  with  an 
unearthly  glare,  by  the  flaming  element  around.  That 
face  was  still  and  cold  in  its  expression — if  there  was 
one  feeling  predominant  over  another,  it  seemed  to  bo 
scorn,  and  a  slight  curl  of  the  lip,  turned  towards 
Father  Hilario,  said,  as  plain  as  words  could  utter  it, 
"thou  hypocrite!"  Father  Hilario  marked  it  not. 
His  eyes  were  directed  towards  heaven — his  hands 
folded  on  his  breast,  and  those  present  never  forgot 
the  manner  in  which  he  ejaculated  the  most  affecting 
appeal  on  holy  record — "  Oh !  my  God,  why  hast  thou 
forsaken  me  ?" 

I  have  undertaken  the  task,  and,  however  painful,  1 
must  not  shrink  from  its  fulfilment;  then  let  not  the 
moralist  upbraid  me,  for  introducing  an  event  which 
the  infidel  might  exultingly  cite,  as  proof  that  no 
superintending  Providence  watched  over  the  destinies 
of  man.  But,  who  are  those  who  stand  around  the 
throne  of  God,  clothed  with  robes  of  glory,  and  im- 
mortal crowns  upon  their  brows  ?  They  who  have 
travelled  with  bleeding  feet  through  the  briers  and 
thorns  of  human  suffering,  mid  darkness,  and  tribula- 
tion, and  despair — the  pilgrims  of  sorrow,  that  they 
may  be  the  inheritors  of  immortality.  Father  Hilnrio 
had  walked  uncontaminated  through  a  path  where 
the  flowers  of  love  and  the  incense  of  adulation  were 
dangerously  blended ;  he  was  now  to  pass  through  the 
25 


402  COURTSHIP   AXD    .MAURIAOK:    OR,    THE 

refiner's  fire,  that  the  fine  gold  might  be  purified  1'rom 
the  dross  of  this  world's  pollution.  I  will  not  linger 
on  scenes  so  revolting.  He  surrendered  himself  into 
the  hands  of  the  magistrate,  and  in  one  of  those  cells 
vaulted  for  the  reception  of  human  guilt,  one  of  the 
best  and  purest  of  God's  creation,  awaited  the  trial  for 
life  or  death.  The  inhabitants  of  the  village  trembled 
and  clustered  together,  as  when  the  shock  of  an  earth- 
quake is  felt,  claiming  closer  brotherhood  in  the 
general  calamity.  They  loudly  proclaimed  his  inno- 
cence; they  protested  against  his  arrest  as  an  act  of 
sacrilege ;  they  would  have  burst  his  prison  doors  to 
redeem  him,  but  he  would  not  permit  the  laws  of  his 
country  to  be  violated.  He  exhorted  them  to  forbear- 
ance, and  prayed  them  to  leave  the  event  in  the  hands 
of  the  Almighty.  I  dare  not  speak  of  what  Leila  suf- 
fered. From  the  moment  she  heard  the  awful  tidings, 
she  sat  speechless  as  a  statue;  the  look  of  wild  con- 
sternation, with  which  she  first  listened,  imprinted  on 
her  face,  as  if  it  had  been  chiselled  in  the  marble  she 
resembled.  Could  she  but  have  wept ! — but  hers  was 
not  common  woe — even  maternal  tenderness  could 
not  fathom  its  depth.  Tears! — horror  had  frozen  their 
fountain. 

The  day  of  trial  came;  a  day  never  forgotten  in  the 

nnrials  of  the  village  of  L .     The  hall  of  justice 

was  filled  almost  to  suffocation.  Every  countenance 
was  flushed  with  that  expression  of  high-wrought  ex- 
citement, which  extraordinary  and  awful  events  ar«» 
calculated  to  produce;  and  it  is  a  strange,  inexplica- 
ble paradox  of  the  human  heart,  that,  however  a}) 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN"  LIFE.        403 

palling  may  be  those  events,  there  is  something  of 
pleasure  in  the  intensity  of  feeling  they  call  forth. 
"When  Father  Hilario  appeared,  there  was  a  murmur 
through  the  crowd,  like  the  hushing  of  autumnal 
winds,  succeeded  by  the  stillness  of  awe  and  expecta- 
tion. His  cheek  was  wan,  his  eye  solemn,  yet  serene, 
and  his  hair  hung  neglected  on  his  temples,  as  if  heavy 
with  the  dungeon's  dampness.  There  was  a  heaving 
of  the  crowd,  as  he  passed  through,  intimating  the 
restless  elements  restrained  in  its  bosom.  Father 
Hilario — the  revered,  the  beloved— the  almost  wor- 
shipped—stood arraigned  before  the  bar  of  his  country, 
accused  of  the  blood  of  his  fellow  man.  Where  was 
his  accuser?  There — conspicuous  amidst  the  throng, 
towered  the  stately  form  of  Murillo.  Men  looked 
upon  him  askance,  unwilling  to  fix  a  steady  gaze  on 
him,  who  had  armed  the  avenging  laws  against  one 
whom,  in  spite  of  the  blood-stained  robe  and  dagger, 
they  felt  must  be  innocent.  Murillo  knew  the  part 
before  him,  and  he  was  eloquent.  His  voice,  when  he 
chose  to  modulate  it,  had  something  peculiarly  insin- 
uating in  its  tones.  He  began  so  low,  that  the  people 
were  obliged  to  bend  forward  earnestly  to  hear  his 
articulation.  These  low  sounds,  however,  were  only 
the  prelude  to  a  burst  of  impassioned  eloquence.  He 
described  the  scene  which  he  had  witnessed — the  wild 
shriek,  which,  piercing  the  air,  startled  him  in  his 
evening  walk ;  the  form  of  Guido  sinking  beneath 
the  death  steel  of  the  anointed  assassin.  He  painted, 
with  graphic  power,  the  flight  of  Father  Hilario;  the 
concealing  of  the  dagger  in  his  bosom,  the  gathering 


404  COURTSHIP   AXI)  MARRIAGE;   OR,   TIIK 

up  of  his  robe  to  hide  the  bloody  stains ;  every  thing 
was  minutely  marked.  The  voiceless  witnesses,  that 
robe  and  dagger,  were  produced  and  appealed  to, 
almost  as  powerfully  as  the  dumb  wounds  of  Caesar, 
by  the  artful  and  eloquent  Antony.  He  next  enlarged 
upon  the  motives  of  the  deed.  With  the  subtlety  of  a 
fiend,  he  stole  into  the  ears  of  his  auditors,  throwing 
out  dark  hints  of  the  resistless  influence  of  jealousy, 
sweeping  down  the  landmarks  of  reason,  honour,  and 
religion.  Father  Ililario  knew  that  Guido  was  his 
rival.  Then,  seeing  his  audience  start,  as  if  electrified 
at  the  disclosure,  he  pursued  his  advantage,  and 
painted  the  scene  in  the  arbour,  during  the  awful 
warfare  of  nature.  lie  saw  a  flush  of  indescribable 
emotion  in  Father  Hilario's  face,  and  it  redoubled  his 
energy.  He  even  disclosed,  though  with  apparent 
grief  and  reluctance,  the  despair  and  remorse  with 
which  the  ill-fated  girl  had  confessed  her  sacrilegious 
passion.  He  closed  with  an  adjuration  to  religion 
and  humanit}',  to  vindicate  their  violated  laws,  by 
hurling  a  bolt  "red  with  uncommon  wrath,"  on  the 
vile  irnposior,  who  had  clothed  himself  in  white  and 
fleecy  robes,  to  despoil  innocence  of  its  bloom,  and 
manhood  of  the  free  gift  of  life. 

A  death-like  silence  prevailed  after  the  accuser  had 
ceased  to  speak,  first  broken  by  a  deep,  convulsive 
sob.  The  mourner  sat  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  hall, 
and  his  face  was  bowed  on  his  joined  hands.  It  was 
the  father  of  Leila,  who  had  heard  all  that  had  beerf 
uttered  of  his  child,  without  the  power  to  refute  the 
daring  charge.  The  painful  situation  to  which  the 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        405 

unhappy  girl  was  reduced,  was  a  dreadful  commentary 
upon  the  words  of  Murillo.  "With  all  the  anguish  of 
a  father,  he  felt  that  she  was  lost  to  him,  and  the 
cause  of  her  fading  and  despair  burst  upon  him  at 
once,  with  horrible  reality.  The  father's  sobs  pleaded 
more  powerfully  against  Father  Hilario  than  the 
laboured  eloquence  of  Murillo. 

At  last  Father  Hilario  rose,  and  so  great  was  the 
excitement  of  the  audience,  that  almost  all  who  were 
present  rose  simultaneously.  His  manner  had  lost 
much  of  its  serene  composure,  his  countenance  was 
agitated,  and  a  flush  of  hectic  bri^iitness  burned  on 
his  pallid  cheek.  He  had  resigned  himself  to  his  own 
fate,  but  now  the  destiny  of  another  was  identified 
with  his.  He  felt  that  his  lonely  arm  might  vainly 
endeavour  to  interpose  a  barrier  between  them  and 
the  gathered  storm. 

"I  have  naught,"  said  he,  "to  offer  against  the 
black  charges  alleged  against  me,  but  the  evidence 
of  a  stainless  life;  a  life  whose  best  and  holiest 
energies  have  been  exerted  in  your  behalf.  I  am 
innocent — God  knows  I  am  innocent — but  the  powers 
of  darkness  are  leagued  for  my  destruction,  and  I 
am  left  alone  to  wrestle  with  their  wrath.  I 
will  not  plead  for  myself,  but  in  behalf  of  in- 
sulted purity,  I  will  lift  up  my  voice,  till  it  meet 
an  answer  in  the  skies.  I  speak  of  that  innocent 
being,  whom  I  sheltered  in  these  paternal  arms, 
from  the  fury  of  the  desolating  tempest.  I  knew 
not  that  any  eye,  save  the  all-seeing  one,  beheld 
the  meeting,  but  never  has  one  thought  warmed 


406  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

my  breast  for  her,  that  angels  might  not  sanction, 
and  omniscient  holiness  approve.  I  have  loved  her 
as  a  young  disciple  of  our  common  Lord,  as  a  most 
precious  lamb  of  the  flock  of  Israel,  whom  my 
pastoral  hand  has  led  through  the  green  fields,  and 
by  the  deep  waters  of  eternal  life.  She  needs  no 
vindication;  ye  know  that  she  is  pure.  Oh!  could 
the  unfortunate  youth,  whose  life  blood  dyes  yon 
sacerdotal  robe,  now  rend  the  cerements  of  his  voice- 
less grave,  enter  this  crowded  hall,  and  point  his 
mouldering  finger  at  the  undetected  murderer — the 
bold  accuser  of  unarmoured  innocence  would  call 
upon  the  mountains  and  the  rocks  to  cover  him 
from  the  justice  of  man,  and  the  vengeance  of  God. 
But,  though  no  mortal  power  can  bring  him  before 
this  earthly  bar,  there  is  a  tribunal,  impartial  and 
eternal,  where  he  now  pleads,  where  he  will  forever 
plead,  against  the  guilty  wretch,  who  has  dared  to 
break  the  most  awful  canons  of  the  living  God.  Oh! 
ye  deluded  people!"  continued  he,  extending  his 
apostolic  hands  towards  them;  "I  weep  not  for  my- 
self, but  for  you.  I  yearn  not  for  life.  I  had  hoped  to 
have  breathed  out  rny  soul  on  the  natural  pillow  of 
decay,  soothed  by  the  voice  of  tenderness,  and  hal- 
lowed by  the  tears  of  regret;  but  to  go  down  to  an 
ignominious  grave,  and  leave  a  dark,  dishonoured 
memory! — yet  it  is  meet  that  I  suffer.  The  Almighty 
wills  that  I  should,  or  he  might  rend  the  heavens  for 
my  deliverance,  and  send  down  armies  of  angels  to 
shield  me  from  your  rage.  I  should  rather  glory  in 
my  martyrdom,  as  the  disciple  of  Him,  in  whose 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        407 

name  I  have  lived,  in  whose  faith  I  will  triumphantly 
die,  who  wore  the  crown  of  agony,  and  bore  the  cross 
of  shame.  For  you,  if  my  condemnation  is  sealed, 
the  time  will  come  when  the  days  will  roll  in  sorrow 
and  gloom  over  your  heads,  the  nights  will  come  on 
in  the  blackness  of  darkness^  ye  will  seek  for  comfort 
and  ye  will  not  find  it,  for  the  weight  of  innocent 
blood  will  be  on  your  souls." 

There  was  a  sudden  parting  in  the  crowd — those 
who  were  clustered  round  the  gate  fell  back,  as  if 
by  irresistible  impulse,  and  an  apparition  glided 
through  the  dividing  throng,  which  might  well  be 
taken  as  a  messenger  from  another  world.  Pale, 
white  as  a  death-shroud,  her  neglected  locks  floating 
around  her,  wild  as  the  tendrils  of  the  forest  vine, 
and  her  eyes  beaming  with  intense  and  wandering 
fires,  she  rushed  forward,  regardless  of  every  object, 
save  one,  and  threw  her  arms  around  Father  Hilario, 
with  a  cry  of  such  piercing  anguish,  as  thrilled 
through  every  nerve  of  her  auditors.  Need  I  say, 
that  it  was  the  unfortunate  Leila,  who,  roused  from 
the  lethargy  of  despair,  and  supported  by  the  un- 
natural strength  of  madness,  had  thus  forced  her 
desperate  way  in  the  hope  of  dying  with  him,  she 
loved?  As  Father  Hilario  looked  upon  this  sweet, 
blighted  flower  of  his  fondest  earthly  affections,  lying 
in  drooping,  dying  loveliness  on  his  bosom,  he  forgot 
everything  but  her  tenderness  and  devotion,  and  clos- 
ing his  arms  around  her,  "tears  such  as  angels  shed" 
baptized  her  spotless  face.  In  vain  did  her  father, 
with  a  breaking  heart,  strive  to  release  her  from  tho 


408  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

embrace  she  had  sought.  She  clung  to  Father  Hil- 
ario  with  an  energy  that  seemed  supernatural,  a  clasp 
that  was  almost  indissoluble,  till,  at  length,  exhausted 
and  apparently  expiring,  she  relaxed  her  hold,  and 
was  borne  by  her  father  to  his  now  desolate  home. 
Father  Hilario  gazed  after  her  till  the  last  glimpse 
of  her  figure  was  lost,  then  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  his  Creator  only  saw  and  knew  the  passing 
agony  of  that  moment. 

The  sequel  of  this  trial  must  have  been  anticipated, 
from  some  dark  intimations  of  his  fate,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  narrative.  The  unconscious  Leila 
had  sealed,  by  her  presence,  the  doom  of  him  she 
would  Jiave  died  to  save.  Her  desperation  and  love 
were  fatal  corroborations  of  the  truth  of  Murillo's  tes- 
timony. Father  Hilario  returned  to  his  cell,  a  con- 
demned man;  condemned  to  expiate  at  the  stake,  the 
double  crime  of  sacrilege  and  murder;  but  it  is  re- 
corded that  the  judges,  who  were  men  of  stern,  un- 
bending character,  wept  as  they  uttered  the  sentence, 
and  the  people  sobbed  and  groaned  audibly  as  they 
heard  it.  *  *  *  *  * 

At  length  the  day  dawned  which  was  marked  for 
the  consummation  of  the  dreadful  decree.  It  was  one 
of  painful,  sickening  brightness.  Nature  had  clothed 
herself  in  her  most  magnificent  robes,  and  assumed 
her  fairest  smile,  as  if  to  mock  the  crimes  and  suffer- 
ings of  man.  On  a  gradual  eminence,  covered  with 
living  green,  o'ercanopied  with  dazzling  sapphire,  was 
Keen  the  funeral  pile  of  the  victim.  A  multitude 
\\iis  stretched  widely,  darkly  around  it,  and  heav- 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LTFE.        409 

ing  heavily,  mournfully  on  the  air,  the  death-bell 
rolled  its  long,  deep  echoing  knell,  saddest  of  all 
earthly  sounds.  There  was  something  awful  in  the 
stillness  of  this  vast  multitude — even  more  than  its 
wild  rush  and  commotion,  when  Father  Hilario  was 
led  forth  to  the  fatal  pile.  He  passed  along,  clad  in 
white  victim  robes,  the  crucifix  suspended  on  his 
bosom,  his  face  placid  as  the  lake,  on  which  the  moon- 
beams untrembling  repose.  Every  trace  of  human 
emotion  had  vanished.  He  had  been  on  the  mount 
of  prayer,  and  the  reflection  of  the  invisible  glory 
was  still  bright  on  his  brow.  If  ever  mortal,  in  the 
expresson  of  saint-like  humanity,  patience,  mildness 
and  majesty,  approached  the  similitude  of  the  divine 
sufferer,  it  was  Father  Hilario.  He  passed  along  to 
the  sound  of  the  mournful  bell,  through  the  audible 
lamentations  of  the  crowd,  where  man  in  his  strength, 
woman  in  her  sensibility,  and  childhood  in  its  help- 
lessness and  timidity,  were  strangely  and  inexplicably 
blended.  The  victim  reached  the  place  of  sacrifice. 
He  turned  around,  to  take  in,  for  the  last  time,  the 
glories  of  creation ;  then  bending  his  eyes  on  the  mul- 
titude, he  extended  his  arms,  in  benediction  over 
them.  He  spoke,  and  that  voice,  so  sweet  and  solemn, 
rose  through  the  deepening  murmurs,  like  the  diapason 
of  an  organ,  mid  the  wailings  of  a  storm. 

"  Ye  beloved  flock,  farewell !  To  that  Almighty 
Shepherd,  who  laid  down  his  life  for  your  salvation, 
with  prayers  arid  blessings,  I  commit  you.  Again  I 
say,  weep  not  for  me.  Eejoice  rather,  that  ye  see  me 
die  an  innocent,  a  triumphant  martyr.  Think,  when, 


410  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

the  fiery  wreath  encircles  my  brow,  how  soon  it  will 
be  converted  into  a  crown  of  glory.  Even  now  rae- 
thinks  I  see  through  the  opening  heavens,  the  wheels 
of  the  descending  cherubim." — He  looked  up,  as  he 
spoke,  with  a  countenance  of  inspiration,  and  kneel- 
ing  down  exclaimed,  with  the  adoring  prophet,  "  My 
Father,  my  Father !  the  chariot  of  Israel  and  the 
horsemen  thereof."  The  awe-struck  crowd  gazed  up 
into  the  unshadowed  vault,  almost  believing  to  wit- 
ness the  same  miracle  of  divine  love,  wrought  in  be- 
half of  the  sainted  victim.  But  they  beheld  no  burn- 
ing car  rolling  through  the  arch  of  heaven — no  wings 
of  angels  parted  its  resplendent  blue.  They  looked 
down  to  earth,  and  saw  Father  Hilario  embracing  the 
fatal  stake.  One  flash  of  the  kindling  pyre,  and  a 
wild,  simultaneous  shriek  rent  the  air.  Higher  and 
hgher  rose  the  gathering  blaze;  still,  through  the 
winding  sheet  of  flame,  glimpses  were  seen  of  that 
glorious  form,  crowned  with  the  awful  pomp  of  mar- 
tyrdom. Deeper  and  deeper  closed  the  fiery  folds, 
then  paler  waxed  the  wasting  splendour,  till  at  last 
naught  but  the  smoke  of  the  holocaust  went  up  to 
heaven. 

Twice  the  sun  rose  and  set  over  the  scene  of  sacri- 
fice. The  silence  of  death  brooded  over  the  valley. 
Again  the  bell  swelled  in  funeral  harmony  on  the 
melancholy  air,  while  a  long  procession  darkened  the 
church-yard  and  closed  around  a  solitary  grave.  At 
the  head  of  that  grave  appeared  the  figure  of  a  grief- 
strioken  man.  There  was  such  an  expression  of  un- 
speakable woe  and  humiliation  in  his  countenance, 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        411 

that  even  sympathy  turned  away,  self-rebuked,  for 
having  looked  at  sorrow  too  sacred  for  observation. 
It  was  the  broken-hearted  father  of  Leila.  It  was 
around  her  grave  that  mournful  throng  was  gathering. 
But  why  were  no  white-robed  maidens  there,  to  per- 
form the  customary  rite,  and  scatter  the  perishing 
wreath,  emblem  of  fragility  and  beauty,  over  one 
who  was  the  fairest  of  their  band  ?  A  dark  spot  had 
been  discovered  in  the  whiteness  of  the  lily's  chalice, 
and  the  flowers  of  its  tribe  were  not  permitted  to 
shed  their  mourning  sweetness  over  its  decay.  The 
appalling  stillness  which  precedes  the  sound  most 
agonizing  to  the  mourner's  ear,  the  fall  of  the  cover- 
ing mould,  pervaded  the  scene.  The  father  lay  pros- 
trate on  the  earth,  and  the  throes  which  shook  his 
frame,  wrere  fearful  to  behold.  Some  thought,  as  they 
gazed  on  his  convulsive  pangs,  there  could  be  no 
grief  like  his;  but  they  remembered  her  who  was 
left  in  the  forsaken  home.  The  mother's  sorrow  was 
not  for  man  to  witness.  When,  at  length,  that  damp, 
heavy,  doleful  sound,  the  last  knell  of  mortality,  fell 
startlingly  on  the  ear,  Murillo,  who  had  stood  in  sta- 
tue-like immobility,  somewhat  aloof  from  the  general 
throng,  rushed  wildly  forward,  and  stepping  on  the 
very  brink  of  the  grave,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which 
might  rend  the  marble  slumbers  of  death  : 

"  Away  I — she  shall  not  go  down  unhonoured  and 
unavenged.  She's  mine — I  bought  her — with  my 
soul's  price  I  bought  her — the  covenant  is  written  in 
blood,  and  sealed  with  the  flames  of  martyrdom. 
Yes,"  he  continued,  his  fiery  eyes  flashing  with  into- 


412  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

lerable  brightness;  "yes!  ye  blind  judges,  tremble, 
for  ye  have  need.  Ye  have  condemned  an  angel  of 
light  upon  the  testimony  of  a  fiend.  Ye  have  done 
that,  which  ye  would  give  worlds  upon  worlds  to 
redeem.  Behold  in  me  the  assassin  of  Guido,  the 
murderer  of  Father  Hilario,  the  destroyer  of  Leila. 
I  execrated  Guido,  for  he  made  me  a  branded  Cain 
among  my  fellow  men.  I  hated  Father  Hilario,  for 
Leila  loved  him ;  and  /,  an  alien  from  mankind,  lived 
but  to  worship  her.  She  loved  him,  but  with  a  love 
as  pure  as  that  which  warms  the  burning  cherubim — 
I  stole  the  robes  of  holiness,  and  wrought  beneath 
their  folds  the  deed  of  hell.  The  Prince  of  darkness 
was  with  me,  and  promised  me  her,  who  now  lies  cold 
in  the  bed  my  gory  hands  have  made.  Here,  in  the 
presence  of  death,  and  the  prospect  of  judgment,  in 
the  name  of  that  dreadful  Deity  I  have  defied,  I 
proclaim  the  innocence  of  my  victims,  your  own 
guilt  and  mine.  Live  on,  if  ye  will,  weighed  down 
with  the  curse  of  guiltless  blood  upon  your  souls ; 
for  me,  I  lived  to  destroy — I  die  to  avenge."  Before 
an  arm  could  be  lifted  to  avert  the  deed,  he  had 
drawn  a  dagger  from  his  vest,  and  plunging  it  in  his 
bosom,  fell  a  bleeding,  but  unavailing  sacrifice  to  the 
ashes  of  Leila. 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        413 


Ctmpftb. 


"  I  DON'T  believe  brother  will  be  here  to-night — 
that  I  don't,"  said  little  Mary  Norwood,  rubbing  her 
eyes  that  winked  and  ached  from  gazing  so  long 
from  the  window.  "  I  won't  love  him  if  he  don't ; 
such  a  pretty  bright  night  too." 

"  You  had  better  go  to  bed,  my  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Norwood,  smoothing  down  her  wayward  ringlets, 
"you  are  getting  very  sleepy,  and  Augustus  will  not 
be  here  a  minute  sooner  from  your  watching." 

"No,  but  I  want  to  see  rny  doll  he's  going  to  bring 
me,  and  besides  I  am  not  a  bit  sleepy,  mother," — 
and  she  opened  her  round  blue  eyes  to  their  widest 
limits,  to  prove  the  truth  of  her  assertion. 

"  I  don't  believe  Augustus  would  know  Mary  if 
he  saw  her  any  where  else,"  said  Harriet  Norwood, 
looking  lovingly  on  her  little  sister,  "she  has  grown 
so  much,  and  altered  too,  within  the  last  two  years." 

"He  would  know  those  big  blue  eyes  of  hers  any 
where,"  answered  her  mother,  smiling,  "especially 
when  she  puts  on  that  round  look,  as  he  used  to  call 
it.  I  hope  he  will  not  be  changed,  but  bring  back 
the  same  sunny  countenance  and  ingenuous  smile, 
that  distinguished  his  face  from  a  thousand.  He  will, 
if  he  has  preserved  the  sunshine  of  his  heart  un- 
dimmed,  and  its  fountains  pure  from  corruption. 
There  are  so  many  temptations  in  a  large  city,  I  have 
sometimes  trembled  for  him,  considering  his  youth, 


414  COURTSHIP   AM)   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

and  the  proneness  of  the  human  heart  to  wander  from 
the  strait  and  narrow  path  into  the  wide  road  that 
leads  to  ruin." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Harriet  warmly,  "  I  know  he  is 
the  same.  Such  an  affectionate  disposition  and  ar- 
dent feelings  as  his,  united  with  such  upright  prin- 
ciples and  such  high  sense  of  honour,  could  never 
change  so  soon.  I  would  scarcely  be  afraid  to  stake 
my  life  on  his  uncorrupted  integrity." 

"Kose  Somers  herself  could  not  have  defended 
him  with  more  warmth,"  replied  Mrs.  Norwood,  smil- 
ing at  Harriet's  glowing  cheek  and  earnest  counte- 
nance, "  but  you  little  know  a  mother's  heart  if  you 
think  there  is  not  as  eloquent  an  advocate  in  his 
behalf  pleading  in  my  breast  as  yours." 

"Harkl"  exclaimed  little  Mary,  jumping  up  ea- 
gerly and  running  again  to  the  window,  "I  hear  bells 
— how  sweet  they  jingle! — it's  brother,  I  know." 

Mrs.  Norwood  and  Harriet  followed  the  rapid  foot- 
steps of  Mary,  and  gazed  abroad  on  the  pure  expanse 
of  snow,  that,  scarcely  yet  tracked  by  the  footsteps 
of  man,  shone  white  and  dazzling  in  the  moonlight. 
A  light  sheet  had  fallen  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
day,  and  the  sun,  to  Mary's  bitter  grief,  had  gone 
down  in  clouds;  but  after  awhile  the  moon  was  seen 
palely  struggling  through  them,  then  lining  and  edg- 
ing them  with  brightening  silver,  till  at  length  they 
melted  in  her  deepening  radiance,  and  she  looked 
down,  unveiled  and  glorious,  on  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  scenes  of  the  universe — a  wide  landscape  cov- 
ered with  smooth,  'undrifted  snow,  that  reflected  its 


JOYS   AND   SOUKOWS  OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        415 

white  lustro  back  through  the  cold  still  air — and 
looked  so  sweet  and  pure,  one  might  forget  in  gazing 
chat  sin  or  sorrow  had  ever  marred  so  fair  a  world. 
Mary's  quick  ear  had  not  deceived  her — the  merry 
jingling  of  bells  was  distinctly  heard;  they  rung 
faster  and  faster,  nearer  and  nearer— a  sleigh  covered 
with  sweeping  buffalo  skins  came  dashing  up  to  the 
door,  a  young  man  sprang  out,  and  was  welcomed  at 
the  threshold  by  a  three-fold  embrace,  and  smiles  and 
tears  mingled  together  like  an  April  shower,  and  still 
those  clasping  arms  were  around  him  when  he  stood 
by  the  blazing  hearth,  whose  ruddy  light  contrasted 
beautifully  with  the  cold  splendour  abroad. 

"How  well  you  look,  Augustus!"  said  his  mother, 
as  soon  as  she  could  speak,  for  deep  joy  is  never  lo- 
quacious. 

"And  you  too,  dear  mother;  you  never  looked  so 
young;  and  what  shall  I  say  of  little  Mary  here, 
whom  I  left  no  higher  than  my  knee  ?" 

"Ain't  I  grown  tall,  brother?"  cried  she,  standing 
on  tip-toe,  and  trying  to  stretch  out  her  little  short, 
fat  neck. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  lifting  her  in  his 
arms  as  he  spoke,  "and  those  round  blue  eyes  have 
the  same  particular  look  of  astonishment  I  always 
loved  to  excite." 

He  pressed  her  warm,  rosy  cheek  against  his  cold 
one,  while  his  mother  warmed  his  chilled  hands  in 
hers,  and  Harriet  took  off  his  frosty  cloak,  and  drew 
his  chair  close  to  the  glowing  fire. 

"  There  is  indeed  no  place  like  home,"  exclaimed 


416  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

he,  looking  round  him  with  a  glistening  eye.  "A 
welcome  like  this  would  repay  one  for  a  long  life's 
exile.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  boy  once  more,  I  might 
almost  say  a  girl,  for  a  girl's  softness  is  stealing  over 
my  heart." 

He  bent  his  head  over  Mary's  flaxen  ringlets,  and 
she  thought  the  snow  flakes  that  powdered  his  hair 
were  melting  in  drops  on  her  cheeks.  She  took 
this  favourable  opportunity  of  whispering  in  his  ear 
some  very  particular  questions  about  the  dolls  of  the 
city,  which  received  the  best  practical  answer  in  the 
world  in  the  appearance  of  a  waxen  doll  lialf  as  large 
as  herself,  which  could  open  and  shut  its  eyes,  ;uul 
which  put  her  into  such  an  ecstasy  of  joy  and  admi- 
ration it  is  doubtful  whether  she  slept  during  the  whole 
night.  His  mother  and  Harriet,  too,  had  each  their 
respective  gifts,  testimonies  of  affection,  whose  value 
can  only  be  kiiown  and  prized  by  those  who  have  felt 
the  warmth  of  such  a  welcome  home. 

"Haven't  you  brought  something  pretty  for  Rose, 
too  ?"  said  Mary.  "  Don't  you  want  to  see  Rose  So- 
mere  ?" 

"And  how  is  Rose  Somers?"  asked  he,  endeavour- 
ing to  speak  in  a  tone  of  unconcern.  "Has  she  for- 
gotten her  old  schoolmate  and  friend  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  forgetting  you,"  answered  little 
Mary,  looking  thoughtfully  down,  "  for  when  I  a.sked 
her  the  other  day  if  she  did  not  want  to  see  you  more 
than  any  body  in  the  whole  world,  she  said  if  she 
were  a  little  girl  like  me  perhaps  she  would.  She 


JOYS  ANT)  SORROWS   OF   ATUEPJCAX   LIFE.        417 

did  not  look  glad  either,  for  I  saw  the  tears  coming 
into  her  eyes  when  she  said  it." 

Harriet  smiled,  but  Augustus  seemed  infected  by 
Mary's  sadness,  and  remained  silent  for  some  time, 
gazing  steadfastly  on  the  blazing  hearth.  It  was  then 
his  mother  had  leisure  to  observe  his  countenance, 
now  in  repose,  and  to  note  the  changes  two  years 
had  wrought.  He  was  much  thinner,  and  she  thought 
paler  too,  though  the  fitful  glow  of  the  fire  made  it 
difficult  to  judge  of  the  natural  hue  of  his  complex 
ion.  There  was  a  contraction  of  the  brow,  and  an 
indescribable  expression  about  the  mouth,  caused  by 
a  slight  quivering  of  the  under  lip,  and  the  compres- 
sion of  the  upper.  This  expression  was  the  more 
remarkable  in  him,  as  his  face  had  ever  been  distin- 
guished by  its  joyous  frankness  and  vivacity.  He 
looked  up,  and  meeting  his  mother's  mild  and  earn- 
est gaze,  seemed  conscious  that  she  was  reading  a 
tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts,  for  he  roused  himself 
from  the  abstraction  in  which  he  had  fallen,  and 
talked  and  smiled  as  he  was  wont  to  do  in  his  more 
boyish  days.  Before  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  Mrs. 
Norwood  drew  a  small  table  near  the  fire,  on  which, 
the  family  Bible  was  laid.  Harriet  placed  a  lamp  at 
its  side,  and  little  Mary  slid  down  from  her  brother  s 
knees,  and  took  a  low  chair,  as  if  accustomed  to  a 
more  reverential  attitude  when  listening  to  the  word 
of  God. 

"  My   dear  Augustus,"  said    Mrs.  Norwood,   in   a 
tremulous  voice,  "this   is    the   hour   when  we  have 
always  most  tenderly  and  feelingly  remembered  you. 
26 


418  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGK  :   OR,   TITE 

We  have  never  surrounded  the  family  altnr  without 
involving  blessings  on  your  head,  and  praying  that 
you  might  be  shielded  from  temptation  and  sorrow. 
If  you  still  retain  your  love  for  this  precious  Book, 
and  this  hallowed  hour,  I  shall  feel  that  my  prayers 
have  been  answered." 

Augustus  did  not  answer,  but  he  opened  the  book, 
slowly  turned  over  the  leaves,  pausing  and  then  going 
on  as  if  irresolute  where  to  select  a  portion  of  its 
contents.  The  colour  on  his  face  heightened,  till  his 
very  brow  became  crimson. 

"  Excuse  me  to-night,  dear  mother,"  said  he  hastily. 
"  I  am  hoarse  and  weary  from  riding  so  long  in  the 
cold.  Besides  I  am  occupying  a  place  that  yourself 
or  Harriet  can  far  better  fill." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  took  the  seat  farthest 
from  the  light,  avoiding  the  anxious  glances  that  fol- 
lowed his  footsteps,  while  Harriet,  occupying  the  one 
he  had  vacated,  began  to  read.  At  first  her  voice 
faltered,  but  gathering  firmness  as  she  proceeded, 
settled  into  a  sweet  solemnity  of  tone,  appropriate  to 
the  holy  truths  she  uttered.  But  when  the  book  was 
closed  and  they  knelt  down  in  prayer,  it  was  the 
mother's  low  accents  that  met  the  ear.  When  death 
had  entered  that  domestic  circle  and  smitten  the 
master  of  the  household,  who  like  the  patriarchs  of 
ancient  days  had  offered  up  the  morning  and  even- 
ing sacrifice,  Mrs.  Norwood  had  gathered  her  orphan 
children  around  her,  and  in  the  deep  humility  of  a 
stricken  and  wounded  spirit,  laid  her  lonely  offerings 
on  the  shrine  consecrated  by  the  manly  devotions  of 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        419 

years.  She  was  not  ashamed  to  lift  up  her  voice,  as 
well  as  her  heart,  to  Him  who  is  the  widow's  God 
and  the  Father  of  the  fatherless — and  her  children  thus 
educated  in  the  hallowed  atmosphere  of  prayer  and 
of  praise,  learnt  to  realize  the  omnipresence  of  their 
Creator,  and  to  feel  that  there  was  an  eye  that  never 
slumbered  or  slept,  constantly  looking  at  their  naked 
hearts  Several  of  her  younger  children  had  died,  and 
their  mother  yielding  them  up  in  faith  to  their  Re- 
deemer, still  bowed  her  head  in  prayer,  and  saidt 
"Father,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done."  Littk 
Mary,  who  was  born  since  her  father's  death,  was  the 
darling  of  the  household.  Like  a  flower  blooming 
in  the  church-yard,  she  shed  brightness  and  fragrance 
over  the  home  then  made  desolate  by  grief.  And 
now  when  happiness  and  cheerfulness  once  more 
gladdened  the  domestic  scene,  she,  in  her  sweet  and 
joyous  childhood,  was  the  nucleus  round  which  the 
tenderest  cares  and  fondest  affections  gathered.  Young 
as  she  was,  her  heart  even  whispered  its  response  to 
her  mother's  aspirations  and  petitions,  and  she  was 
as  much  afraid  to  think  an  evil  thought  as  to  do  an 
evil  action.  But  let  us  leave  Mary  to  develope  her 
guileless  character,  as  she  is  called  into  action,  and 
follow  Augustus  to  his  chamber,  where  he  is  left 
alone  with  his  own  soul.  He  looked  round  on  the 
well-remembered  walls — the  pure  white  curtains,  the 
neat,  simple  furniture, — the  shelves  filled  with  well- 
selected  books,  till  every  object  seemed  to  turn  into 
an  accusing  spirit,  and  upbraid  him  for  his  moral 
dereliction.  And  there  was  the  hallowed  spot,  where 


420  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,    THE 

he  had  been  accustomed  to  kneel  in  prayer,  and  his 
guardian  angel  was  wont  to  descend  to  bear  up  the 
soul's  incense  to  heaven,  after  having  shed  from  his 
wings  the  blessings  witu  which  they  were  laden. 
As  he  pressed  his  cheek  on  that  spotless  pillow,  he 
thought  of  the  visions  of  his  boyhood  and  early 
youth,  and  the  sweet  image  of  Rose  Somers  glided 
before  him  so  distinctly,  she  seemed  to  move  between 
him  and  the  pale  moonlight,  like  a  soft  and  rosy 
cloud.  Affections  that  had  faded  away  in  the  pol- 
luted atmosphere  to  which  he  had  been  exposed,  now 
rose  fresh  and  redolent  as  in  life's  younger  spring. 
And  hand  in  hand  with  them  came  virtuous  reso- 
lutions to  aid  and  sustain  them.  The  past  seemed  a 
dream,  a  dark  and  troubled  one,  but  its  very  darkness 
served  to  exalt  by  the  strength  of  contrast  the  bright- 
ness of  the  future.  He  had  been  a  slave,  the  more 
dishonoured  because  a  willing  one,  but  now  he  was 
determined  to  burst  his  bonds,  and  rejoice  in  the 
liberty  he  had  so  shamefully  surrendered.  He  rose 
in  the  morning,  in  the  full  vigour  of  these  upright  re- 
solutions, but  they  were  made  in  the  confidence  of 
his  own  strength,  and  he  was  yet  to  prove  the  insta- 
bility and  weakness  of  human  will,  opposed  to  the 
power  of  temptations  and  habit. 

Harriet's  geraniums  and  green-house  plants  were 
placed  in  every  window,  beautifully  relieving  the 
chill  white  back-ground  on  which  they  were  dis- 
played. He  saw  they  were  arranged  with  a  view  to 
his  particular  gratification,  and  he  did  not  suffer  a 
tint  to  pass  unnoticed  and  unpraised.  Mary  brought 


JOYS  AND  SOKKCHVS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.         421 

him  her  kitten,  a  beautiful  creature,  with  a  body  as 
white  as  the  snow,  and  a  buff  and  grey  tail,  which 
she  run  round  and  round  after  with  a  peculiar  grace. 
This  was  duly  admired  and  petted  for  Mary's  sake, 
Mho  looked  upon  it  with  feelings  verging  towards 
idolatry. 

"  Augustus  w  unchanged,"  said  Harriet,  when  her 
brother  had  left  the  apartment;  "he  has  preserved 
his  love  for  nature  pure  and  undiminished.  He  was 
weary  last  night,  but  this  morning  he  is  himself  again 
—only  more  manly— yet  he  has  not  lost  his  boyish 
simplicity." 

'"Gustus  isn't  changed,  no  indeed,"  said  Mary, 
caressing  her  favourite;  "he  let  my  kitten  climb  his 
shoulder,  to  purr  there  as  long  as  she  pleased;  you 
told  me,  Harriet,  he  wouldn't  care  for  kittens  any 
more,  but  he  does,  and  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it 
I  know." 

"Augustus  is  changed  in  looks,  but  not  in  heart," 
said  Eose  Somers  to  herself,  as  she  sat  at  their  fire- 
side the  evening  after  his  return.  "He  is  paler,  and 
somewhat  graver  too,  but  he  is  handsome,  withal— 
and  what  he  has  lost  in  gaiety,  he  has  gained  in  sen- 
sibility of  expression.  I  wonder  if  he  thinks  me 
changed?"  continued  she,  lowering  her  eyes  before 
his  vivid  glance,  "he  reads  me  very  closely." 

Eose,  at  seventeen,  was  not  the  same  as  Eose  at 
fifteen,  and  yet  the  alteration  was  more  in  manner 
than  external  appearance.  She  was  not  beautiful  or 
handsome,  yet  there  was  something  about  her  per- 
fectly bewitching,  and  this  charm  did  not  consist  in 


422  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

any  graces  or  smiles,  or  in  any  thing  that  could  bo 
defined.  It  was  felt  by  all  who  saw  her,  and  yet  few 
could  describe  the  attraction  that  pervaded  her  coun- 
tenance and  hung  upon  her  movements. 

"  I  cannot  for  my  life  take  my  eyes  off  that  girl," 
said  an  honest  farmer;  "she  makes  me  think  of  every 
body  I  ever  saw  before,  and  yet  looks  like  nobody  in 
the  world  but  herself." 

Before  Augustus  had  left  the  village,  Rose  was 
almost  a  fixture  in  her  mother's  household.  Of  about 
the  same  age  as  Harriet,  she  was  her  almost  insepar- 
able companion,  and  the  avowed  champion  of  Augus- 
tus in  all  his  difficulties  and  trials.  She  was  tho 
sharer,  too,  of  his  merry  sports — whether  coasting  on 
the  snowy  hill-side,  or  sliding  over  the  ice  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  or  rambling  the  green  fields  in 
search  of  summer  flowers.  But  now  this  familiarity 
would  never  do — they  must  be  polite  and  formal  to 
each  other,  and  Rose  did  try  very  hard  to  call  him 
Mr.  Norwood,  and  to  put  on  a  show  of  womanly 
reserve,  but  after  a  few  days  she  forgot  to  call  him 
Mr.,  and  to  take  a  seat  fur  from  his  side.  Familiar 
scenes  were  renewed,  the  dear  socialities  of  the  winter 
fireside,  the  ride  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  sound  of  the 
merry  going  bells,  even  the  coasting  down  hill,  and 
tho  sliding  on  the  ice,  to  the  ecstasy  of  little  Mary, 
who,  taking  hold  of  her  brother's  coat  as  he  skated, 
thought  herself  quite  an  experienced  traveller  on  ice. 
Mrs.  Norwood,  when  she  saw  her  son  the  enlivener 
of  their  domestic  hearth,  as  he  was  wont  to  be,  read- 
ing for  their  amusement  some  work  of  genius  and 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        423 

feeling,  while  they  were  plying  their  busy  needles, 
and  winding  up  the  evening  with  a  portion  of  God's 
holy  word,  felt  happy  once  more,  and  with  the  all- 
hoping,  all-believing  love  of  a  mother,  gave  herself 
up  to  the  conviction  that  all  was  right.  True,  she 
would  have  felt  very  glad  to  have  seen  him  established 
in  business,  but  then  it  was  natural  after  two  years' 
confinement  and  hard  study,  that  he  would  wish  a 
little  relaxation,  and  though  not  possessed  of  an  ample 
fortune,  he  was  assured  of  an  independence. 

Harriet  and  Eose  sat  together  one  night  at  a  later 
hour  than  usual,  by  the  fireside.  Mrs.  Norwood  and 
Mary  had  retired  to  bed,  and  they  remained  to  watch 
for  the  return  of  Augustus,  who  had  gone  out  with 
a  party  of  young  men  on  a  moonlight  expedition  on 
the  water.  The  streams  had  broken  their  ice-chains, 
so  that  boats  could  glide  on  their  surface,  though 
the  ground  was  still  covered  with  snow.  The  young 
men  for  several  nights  had  been  engaged  in  the 
amusement  of  fishing,  and  Augustus  was  induced  to 
join  them. 

"I  wish  Augustus  had  not  gone,"  said  Harriet,  as 
hour  after  hour  waned  away  and  he  did  not  return. 
"I  do  not  like  this  going  on  the  water  at  night;  and 
there  are  some  very  wild  young  men  of  the  party." 

Rose  looked  at  the  clock,  then  nt  the  window,  then 
walking  towards  it,  looked  out  upon  the  street  till 
her  eyes  were  blinded  with  the  intensity  of  their 
gaze.  "It  is  very  strange,"  said  she,  "very  strange, 
indeed.  He  said  he  would  be  back  at  nine,  and  now 


421  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

it  is  almost  twelve.  Something  must  have  happened. 
He  never  staid  out  so  late  before." 

"  There  was  a  young  man  drowned  last  winter  in  the 
river,  in  just  such  a  frolic  as  this,"  cried  Harriet,  her 
fears  gathering  strength  from  the  manifest  alarm  of 
Rose.  "  I  wonder  I  could  have  forgotten  it." 

"  Harriet,"  exclaimed  Rose,  taking  up  her  cloak  and 
.gathering  it  around  her,  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  going  out 
such  a  night  as  this.  It  is  as  light  as  day.  It  is  not 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  milo  to  the  river  the  back 
way.  Let  us  go  and  see  if  we  can  discover  any  traces 
of  them." 

Harriet  had  some  scruples  about  the  propriety  of 
the  step,  notwithstanding  her  anxiety  about  her  brother ; 
but  Rose,  in  her  impetuosity,  bore  them  down,  and  in 
a  few  moments  they  were  running  along  the  foot-path 
that  led  through  the  fields,  so  closely  muffled  ^in  their 
dark  cloaks  and  hoods,  that  Augustus  himself  could 
not  have  recognized  them.  Every  thing  around  them 
was  as  still  as  if  all  nature  were  sleeping  in  the  cold 
moonlight.  They  heard  nothing  but  the  beating  of 
their  own  hearts,  as  they  glided  swiftly  on,  till  they 
reached  the  bank  of  the  stream.  There  was  a  slight 
declivity  where  they  stood,  and  the  water  rushed  and 
'gurgled  over  the  pebbles,  and  looked  so  dark  and  fear- 
ful where  the  moonbeams  did  not  fall,  that  their 
imaginations,  already  excited,  invested  the  scene  with 
something  wild,  gloomy,  and  peculiar.  Unwillincr  to 
express  to  each  other  the  extent  of  their  fears,  afraid 
of  the  sound  of  their  own  voices  in  that  deep  stillness, 
they  remained  silent  and  trembling,  looking  up  and 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  425 

down  the  stream,  and  listening  to  the  faintest  sound, 
till  a  thousand  echoes  seemed  ringing  in  their  ears. 
.At  length  they  saw  a  light  glimmering  on  the  stream 
— it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  growing  brighter  as  it 
approached,  while  shouts  and  mingled  voices  were 
distinctly  heard.  Inspired  with  new  alarm,  the  two 
girls  sheltered  themselves  in  the  shade  of  a  large  rock, 
hoping  to  escape  observation,  till  this  noisy,  and  seem- 
ingly bacchanalian  crew  had  passed.  They  could  see 
that  the  boat  was  full,  and  that  they  who  rowed,  plied 
the  oars  with  a  bold  and  rapid  hand.  It  came  gliding 
up,  with  a  full  sweep,  near  the  very  rock  by  whose 
shadow  they  were  concealed,  and  several  young  men 
sprang  on  the  bank,  but  the  others  dashed  merrily  on. 

"Augustus  cannot  be  among  these,"  whispered 
Harriet,  as  a  blustering  oath  from  one  met  her  ear. 

Rose  pressed  closer  to  Harriet,  without  speaking. 
She  thought  she  recognized  his  voice,  altered  as  it  was 
in  sound,  and  it  pierced  her  like  a  dagger. 

"  Ha  I  we  have  traitors  in  the  camp  !"  cried  one  of 
them,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  shrinking  figures  that 
leaned  against  the  rock  ;  and  in  a  moment  they  were 
surrounded. 

"  Let  me  see  your  faces,  my  pretty  ones,"  said  the 
foremost  of  the  three  ;  "  we  did  not  know  we  were  so 
tenderly  watched." 

They  gathered  their  cloaks  more  closely  around 
them,  and  buried  their  faces  in  the  folds. 

"  Come  1"  said  the  young  man  with  a  bold  excla- 
mation, "  I  will  know  whether  we  have  got  fairies  ur 
furies  flitting  about  in  the  moonlight  1" 


126  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

He  caught  hold  of  the  cloak  nearest  to  him  with  no 
very  gentle  grasp,  when  its  relaxing  folds  suddenly 
filled  his  arms,  and  the  slight  figure  of  Kose  Somers 
appeared  beautifully  defined  on  the  dark  rock. 

"  Augustus  Norwood,  can  this  be  you  ?"  exclaimed 
she,  in  a  tone  so  sorrowful  and  indignant,  it  recalled 
him  at  once  to  a  sense  of  his  situation. 

He  endeavored  to  put  the  cloak  round  her,  but  she 
snatched  it  from  his  hand,  and  throwing  it  over  her 
own  shoulders,  walked  rapidly  forward,  almost  drag- 
ging Harriet,  who,  weeping  and  looking  back,  begged 
her  brother  to  come  home  with  them. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  brought  you  here, 
at  this  time  of  night  ?"  said  he,  pursuing  their  steps, 
and  speaking  in  a  loud  and  irritated  voice.  "  A  pretty 
hour  for  young  girls  to  be  abroad  alone  1" 

"  Better,  far  better,  to  be  alone,"  said  Eose,  bitterly, 
"  than  in  the  company  of  those  who  forget  they  were 
once  gentlemen." 

"  Why,  Rose,  you  wouldn't  say  I  am  not  a  gentle- 
man," cried  he,  forcing  a  laugh. 

Rose  turned  and  gave  him  one  look,  but  it  was 
sufficient  to  confirm  her  worst  fears.  An  unnatural 
Hush  burned  on  his  cheek,  his  eyes  flashed  with 
the  fires  of  inebriation — his  voice  had  a  strained, 
inflated  tone,  his  whole  expression  and  manner  were 
transformed. 

"We  were  foolish  enough  to  fear  you  might  be 
drowned,"  said  Rose;  "and  forgetting  ourselves  we 
came  here  and  exposed  ourselves  to  insult  and  morti- 
fication 1" 


JOYS  AND   SCUROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  427 

"  Insult  I"  repeated  he ;  "  you  may  depend  upon  it, 
none  shall  insult  you  while  I  am  near."  He  attempted 
to  take  her  hand  and  draw  it  through  his  arm,  but  she 
shrunk  from  him  with  undisguised  repugnance. 

Mrs.  Somers  and  Mrs.  Norwood  lived  side  by  side. 
They  were  now  close  to  the  dwelling  of  the  former. 
Eose  bade  Harriet  a  hasty  good-night,  and  springing 
through  the  gate  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment.  The 
brother  and  sister  did  not  exchange  a  syllable.  They 
entered  their  own  home,  retired  to  their  respective 
chambers— the  one  to  sleep  the  leaden  slumbers  suc- 
ceeding unnatural  excitement,  the  other  to  weep  over 
a  discovery  that  filled  her  heart  with  bitterness  and 
shame. 

The  next  morning  Augustus  did  not  appear  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  Harriet's  pale  cheeks  and  swollen 
eyes  attracted  her  mother's  attention.  Harriet,  re- 
solving to  screen  her  brother,  and  to  save  her  mother, 
if  possible,  the  anguish  of  such  a  disclosure,  declared 
she  had  caught  a  terrible  cold,  which  was  indeed  the 
case,  and  that  she  had  a  bad  headache,  which  was 
equally  true.  She  was  glad  to  submit  to  the  usual 
remedies  for  such  complaints,  and  to  be  kept  a  prisoner 
in  her  own  room  the  remainder  of  the  day,  to  avoid 
meeting  with  Augustus,  whom  she  dreaded  to  see.  He, 
too,  kept  his  room,  upon  the  plea  of  indisposition,  and 
Mrs.  Norwood,  who  feared  from  his  heavy  eyes  and 
feverish  countenance,  he  was  attacked  with  some 
sudden  disease,  could  with  difficulty  be  prevented  from 
sending  for  a  physician.  Little  Mary  hovered  around 
him,  though  he  took  no  notice  of  her  presence  or  at- 


428  COUBTSUIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

tention.  The  child,  unaccustomed  to  such  neglect, 
stood  near  him,  silent  and  sad.  But,  children  cannot 
long  restrain  the  expression  of  their  feelings,  and  the 
consciousness  of  being  slighted  infused  a  little  bitter- 
ness into  her  loving  nature. 

"  Brother,"  said  she,  "  I  am  glad  I  never  saw  you 
sick  before.  I  shouldn't  love  you  so  much  as  I 
do." 

"Why?"  asked  he,  sternly. 

"Because  it  makes  your  eyes  so  red,  and  makes 
you  look  cross,  too.  When  mother  is  sick  I  love  her 
better  than  ever,  she  is  so  sweet  and  gentle." 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  stay  with  me,"  said  he,  push- 
ing her  from  him,  as,  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  she 
was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  her  earnest  and  re- 
proachful gaze. 

The  motion  was  quick  and  Mary  was  thrown  upon 
the  floor.  She  was  not  hurt,  but  her  heart  was  bruised 
by  his  unkindness.  She  would  not  have  told  of  it  for 
the  world,  but  she  stole  away  into  some  dark  corner 
and  wept  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  What  his  re- 
flections were,  when  reason  and  feeling  once  more  re- 
sumed their  empire  over  his  mind,  may  be  gathered 
from  his  first  interview  with  Eose  Somers,  after  their 
midnight  meeting  by  the  water. 

"You  despise  me,  Rose,"  said  he,  stung  by  her  cold, 
calm  reception;  "and  I  deserve  your  contempt." 

"  No,"  said  Eose,  "  but  I  pity  you,  pity  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart." 

"And  I  deserve  your  pity  too,  for  never  was  a  In-ing 
more  wretched  than  I  have  been  ibr  the  lost  six  days. 


JOYS   AND   SORKOWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  429 

Yet,  notwithstanding  my  present  misery,  I  feel  a  relief 
in  knowing  that  you  know  me  as  I  am,  that  my  fatal 
propensity  is  no  longer  concealed  from  you,  that  I  am 
not  obliged  to  act  the  part  of  a  hypocrite  and  appear 
an  angel  of  light,  when  I  am  actually  in  league  with 
the  powers  of  darkness." 

"  No,  no,  no  1"  interrupted  Kose,  turning  as  white  as 
marble  ;  "  you  shall  not  say  so.  You  were  tempted, 
you  were  overtaken ;  they  forced  you  to  join  with 
them,  and  in  a  moment  of  convivial  enjoyment,  you 
forgot  yourself,  Augustus.  You  did  not  know  what 
you  were  doing.  It  was  the  first,  and  it  shall  be  the 
last  time.  You  shall  not  belie  yourself  thus  to  me, 
who  have  known  you  from  childhood — I  never  will,  I 
never  can  believe  you  1" 

"  Listen  to  me,  Rose,"  said  the  unhappy  young  man, 
"while  I  lay  my  heart  bare  before  you,  even  as  it  will 
be  at  the  great  judgment  day.  As  I  hope  for  mercy 
then,  I  will  not  deceive  you  now  1" 

And  she  did  listen,  with  her  hands  joined  so  closely 
together,  that  the  blood  purpled  under  the  nails,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face  with  such  an  intense,  im- 
ploring expression,  it  seemed  as  if  her  very  existence 
hung  upon  the  relation  he  was  making.  He  went 
back  to  the  days  of  his  boyhood  aud  adolescence,  those 
white  days  as  he  called  them,  when  the  only  passion 
whose  ruling  power  he  felt,  was  his  love  for  her,  tender 
and  familiar  as  that  of  a  brother,  but  of  fourfold 
strength.  He  dwelt  on  the  scenes,  when  placed  a 
stranger  in  a  city  of  strangers,  unknown  and  un- 
dreaded,  when  he  had  looked  upon  the  wine  "  when  it 


430  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

was  red,  when  it  gave  its  color  to  the  cup,?'  till  his 
senses  became  maddened  by  the  taste,  and  sought  for 
a  more  inebriating  draught.  "  I  said  to  the  tempter," 
continued  he,  each  time,  "  it  shall  be  the  last.  Still, 
when  they  held  the  burning  bowl  to  my  lips,  I  could 
not  dash  it  from  me,  but  tasted  and  yielded,  till  con- 
science, and  reason  and  memory  were  drowned,  and 
the  ima^e  of  God  was  defaced  within  my  soul.  Then 
when  I  awakened  from  these  deadly  trances,  and  re- 
membered how  low  I  had  plunged — when  I  recollected 
my  mother's  prayers  and  admonitions,  her  confiding 
affection — when  I  thought  of  you,  Rose,  and  all  the 
sweet  dreams  that  had  gilded  my  boyhood — it  almost 
drove  me  mad.  And,  oh !  Rose, — that  night  when  I 
returned  home,  and  my  mother  asked  me  to  read  from 
that  sacred  volume,  whose  precepts  I  had  slighted, 
and  told  me  of  the  prayers  she  had  offered  up  for  me, 
when  I  was  myself  surrounded  by  mementos  of  un- 
polluted pleasures  and  holy  aspirations, — what  I  felt, 
and  how  I  felt,  I  never  can  make  you  know.  Such 
strong  resolutions  as  I  made — such  earnest  vows — 
'  and  yet  you  see  I  have  broken  them  all !  In  the  first 
hour  of  temptation  I  yielded.  Those  young  men  have 
learned,  I  know  not  how,  my  fatal  habit,  and  exerted 
every  art  to  allure  me  to  expose  myself  here.  Perhaps 
they  were  jealous  of  my  influence  with  you.  Sure  I 
am  they  glory  in  my  shame !" 

II  :  paused,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
leaned  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  while  his  frame 
shook  with  an  ague-like  paroxysm.  It  is  affecting 
even  to  a  hard-hearted  person,  to  see  a  man  weep  at 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.          431 

the  common  and  natural  vicissitudes  of  life.  What 
must  have  been  the  feelings  of  the  young  and  sensi- 
tive Eose,  on  seeing  the  tears  of  Augustus — tears,  too, 
wrung  by  that  most  agonizing  of  all  earthly  feelings 
— remorse  I 

She  had  sat  like  a  statute  of  stone,  during  the  his- 
tory of  his  degradation,  pale  and  tearless,  the  image 
of  despair,  but  now  the  blood  rushed  back  in  vivid 
warmth  to  her  cheeks,  and  springing  to  his  side  she 
bent  over  him,  and  leaning  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 
wept  audibly.  Even  when  she  felt  his  arms  thrown 
and  locked  around  her  as  they  had  sometimes  been  in 
childhood,  she  did  not  chide  him  or  withdraw,  for  she 
would  not  for  the  universe  have  added  a  feather's 
weight  to  the  anguish  she  saw  him  suffer. 

"Augustus,"  said  she,  at  length,  "do  not  despair; 
all  will  yet  be  well,  if  you  but  will  it.  You  are  not 
lost,  you  cannot  be,  while  you  feel  so  deeply,  and 
when  there  there  are  so  many  hearts  that  will  break 
in  your  undoing." 

"And  could  you,  Eose,"  said  he,  looking  up — 
"  could  you  forgive  me  for  the  past,  and  trust  me  for 
the  future,  if  from  this  moment  I  break  the  iron  chain 
of  habit  and  live  one  of  God's  freemen,  not  the  bond 
slave  of  Satan  ?  Could  you  forget  the  two  last  yeara 
of  my  life,  and  remember  me,  as  you  knew  me,  before 
I  yielded  to  this  blasting  influence  ?" 

"  Could  I — would  I  ?"  exclaimed  she,  eagerly.  "  Oh  1 
how  little  do  you  know  me !  There  needs  no  oblivions 
wave  to  wash  out  the  remembrance  of  what  I  never 
knew.  As  freely  as  you  have  acknowledged,  so  freely 


4S2  COURTSHIP   AXD   irAKKIAQE;     OR,   THE 

will  I  forgive.  One  known  act  of  indiscretion  can 
never  efiace  the  truth  and  affection  of  years.  Be  true 
to  yourself,  and  I  will  think  of  you  only  as  the  dearest, 
the  best " 

She  stopped,  blushing  at  the  involuntary  strength 
of  her  language,  and  the  gloomy  countenance  of  Au- 
gustus lighted  up  for  a  moment  with  the  sunny  look 
of  his  boyhood. 

"  Hear  me  then,"  cried  he,  "  while  I  solemnly  pro- 
mise   " 

"Oh I  promise  not,"  exclaimed  Kose;  "make  no 
rash  vows,  but  pray  to  Almighty  God  for  strength  to 
resist  temptation,  and  He  will  give  it  thee.  I  too  will 
pray  for  thee  even  as  for  my  own  salvation." 

Augustus  listened  to  her  inspiring  words,  and  looked 
into  her  kindling  eyes,  and  believed  he  never  could 
be  the  monster  to  betray  her  confidence,  and  again 
prove  himself  unworthy  of  the  love  so  triumphant  in 
its  faith,  so  beautiful  in  its  innocence  and  trust. 

The  spring  came  on — green,  bright,  gladdening  and 
rejoicing  spring — with  all  the  splendor,  and  fre.-hne.ss 
and  beauty  peculiar  to  the  latitude  in  which  they 
dwelt.  Streams  of  verdure  seemed  to  gush  up  through 
the  melting  snows,  the  waters  sparkled  in  wreaths  of 
living  silver  down  the  hill-side  and  over  the  plain, 
waves  of  melody  rolled  above  amid  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  the  heavens  shone  with  a  deeper  blue,  the 
stars  flashed  with  intenser  radiance.  Kose,  like  the 
flower  whose  name  she  bore,  gathered  bloom  and 
sweetness  from  the  blooming  season.  There  was 
spring-time  in  her  heart  and  sunshine  in  her  eyes,  and 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  433 

smiles  and  music  on  her  lips.  Augustus  was  ever  at 
her  side,  all  sue  could  wish  or  hope  for.  The  dark 
cloud  that  had  threatened  to  obscure  her  destiny  had 
rolled  away,  and  she  only  remembered  it  to  rejoice 
still  more  in  the  brightness  of  the  present  and  the 
hopes  of  the  future. 

Mouths  glided  on,  the  vivid  bloom  of  spring  melted 
in  the  glory  of  summer,  and  still  Rose  was  the  happi- 
est of  the  happy.  The  national  festival  of  freemen 
approached.  The  manner  in  which  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  celebrate  it  in  this  village  was  peculiarly 
delightful,  for  female  patriotism  and  taste  were  allowed 
to  blend  with  manly  enthusiasm,  and  gild  it  with  many 
a  decorating  tint.  After  the  usual  outpourings  of  elo- 
quence, and  the  bustle  of  a  public  dinner,  the  gentle- 
men and  ladies  met  together,  towards  the  sunset  hour, 
on  some  green  plot  selected  for  the  occasion,  where  a 
bower  was  erected  and  a  table  spread,  covered  with 
every  variety  of  cake  and  fruit,  adorned  with  the  flow- 
ers of  the  season,  and  wreathed  with  wild-wood  gar- 
lands. A  band  of  music  was  stationed  in  the,,  shade  of 
the  trees,  that  made  the  grove  ring  with  melody,  and 
blithe  hearts  respond  to  the  inspiring  strains.  Augus- 
tus had  been  the  orator  of  the  day,  and  with  that 
graceful,  florid  eloquence  which  is  so  captivating  to 
the  e_yo  and  to  the  ear,  had  elicited  universal  applause. 
Rose  oxtilted  in  the  admiration  he  excited,  but  when 
she  saw  him  led  away  in  triumphant  procession,  she 
knevv  that  the  hour  of  temptation  was  come,  and  she 
began  to  tremble.  He  turned  as  he  passed  and  met 
her  anxious  glance  with  one  so  full  of  love  and  confi- 
27 


AND    MAHKIAf!!:;     OR,    THE 

dence,  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  momentary  fear. 
She  had  not  time  to  indulge  in  any  misgivings,  forsho 
was  chosen  the  presiding  queen  of  the  bower,  and  in 
honor  of  Augustus  she  wanted  it  to  be  decorated  with 
legal  beauty.  The  bower  was  erected  on  the  banks  of 
the  stream  already  described,  and  a  boat  with  awnings 
waited  the  motion  of  those  who  felt  disposed  to  glide 
on  its  bosom. 

Hose  and  Harriet,  assisted  by  the  other  young  maid- 
ens of  the  village,  had  rifled  the  woods  of  their  sweets, 
and  little  Mary,  who  had  followed  them  with  a  hop, 
skip  and  jurnp,  every  step  they  tooK,  gathered  the 
buds  and  blossoms  that  nestled  low  in  their  mossy 
beds.  Her  unwearied  fingers  helped  to  twine  the  fes- 
toons that  swept  from  tree  to  tree,  linking  bough  with 
bough  in  flowery  sisterhood.  When  the  fairy  arch 
was  completed,  and  declared  to  be  perfect  in  beauty, 
she  filled  her  apron  with  some  hidden  treasure,  and 
seating  herself  in  a  remote  corner,  appeared  to  be 
engaged  in  a  mysterious  operation.  Then  springing 
on  her  feet,  she  waved  a  lovely  garland  in  the  air,  and 
running  towards  Rose,  "See,"  said  she,  "you  are  queen 
to-day,  and  here  is  your  crown — is  it  not  sweet  ?  and 
don't  she  look  sweet  in  it?"  continued  she,  appealing 
to  all  around  her,  as  Rose  bent  her  head,  and  M:irv 
bound  the  dewy  coronet  on  her  brows.  All  united  in 
paying  testimony  to  the  sweetness  of  Rose,  for  she 
was  the  darling  of  the  village,  and  sweet  was  the  very 
epithet  to  be  applied  to  her. 

Every  body  said  Rose  Somers  was  a  sweet  looking 
girl,  yet  no  one  had  ever  called  her  beautiful.  She 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  435 

certainly  never  had  looked  so  pretty  as  at  this  moment, 
in  her  simple  white  dress  and  crown  of  wild  flowers, 
the  color  in  her  cheeks  coming  and  going,  her  eyes 
darkening  and  sparkling  as  the  martial  music  swelled 
on  the  ear,  and  her  heart  told  her  it  was  the  herald  of 
Augustus.  But  little  Mary  herself  was  an  object  that 
attracted  every  eye.  They  had  twisted  rose-buds  and 
myrtle  in  her  flaxen  ringlets,  encircled  her  white  neck 
and  girdled  her  waist  with  wreaths,  which  she  in  her 
innocent  childhood  delighted  to  wear.  Rose  said  she 
looked  almost  too  much  like  a  lamb,  decorated  for 
sacrifice,  but  Mary  would  not  part  with  any  of  her 
ornaments,  and  wore  them  with  a  sportive  grace  that 
might  have  excited  the  envy  of  a  city  belle. 

"  There  he  is,  there  is  brother,"  exclaimed  she,  clap- 
ping her  hands,  as  the  music  sounded  loud  and  near, 
the  thick  boughs  swung  back,  the  military  band  parted 
to  the  right  and  left,  and  Augustus  was  ushered  in  be- 
tween, directly  in  front  of  the  bower,  where  Rose 
stood,  attended  by  the  fairest  maidens  of  the  village. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Rose  ?"  said  a  young  girl  by 
her  side,  whose  arm  she  had  caught  with  an  uncon- 
scious grasp. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Rose,  but  her  face  turned  as 
white  as  her  dress,  and  her  eyes  had  a  sudden  look  of 
anguish  and  dread.  One  glance  told  her  that  Augus- 
tus had  forgotten  his  vow  of  self-denial,  and  yielded  to 
the  tempter's  snare.  He  had  the  same  high  flush  on 
his  cheek  and  unnatural  brightness  of  the  eye  she  too 
well  remembered  having  once  before  seen.  His  hair 
was  disordered,  his  steps  irregular — in  short,  he  had 


136  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

that  indescribable  air  of  abandonment,  that  mingled 
expression  of  self-satisfaction  and  folly,  that  plainly 
mark  the  incipient  stages  of  inebriation. 

"  Why,  Kose,  my  bonny  Rose,"  exclaimed  he,  in  an 
exalted  tone,  "  you  do  act  the  queen  most  rarely.  Let 
the  most  humble  and  obedient  of  your  subjects  thus 
pay  homage  to  your  majesty."  Then  dropping  on  his 
knees,  he  burst  forth  in  a  flowery  and  theatrical  strain 
of  compliment,  she  in  vain  endeavoured  to  check. 
Mary  laughed  at  this  mock-heroic  strain,  and  thought 
it  very  graceful,  and  admirably  in  keeping  with  the 
joyous  occasion;  but  Rose,  who  knew  too  well  the 
cause  of  his  unwonted  freedom  of  speech  and  manner, 
felt  her  heart  ache  within  her.  She  tried  to  smile,  but 
in  the  very  effort  the  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  His 
sorrow  and  wonder  and  sympathy  was  now  as  extrava- 
gant and  high  flown  as  his  admiration,  and  Rose,  find- 
ing her  situation  intolerable,  drew  back  behind  the 
boughs  of  the  arbour,  where  she  for  a  while  eluded  his 
observation.  Thither  Harriet  followed  her,  and  had 
they  been  at  home  and  alone,  the  two  unhappy  girls 
would  have  thrown  themselves  into  each  other's  arms, 
and  wept  unrestrainedly. 

There  was  a  young  man  who  had  persecuted  Rose 
with  very  unwelcome  attentions  during  the  absence  of 
Augustus,  attributing  the  slight  he  had  received  to 
preference  for  him,  felt  for  him  the  bitterest  hatred. 
He  it  was  who  had  discovered  "  the  burning  plague- 
spot  in  his  heart,"  and  exerted  every  art  to  spi 
into  a  consuming  flame.  At  the  convivial  board,  which 
they  had  just  left,  he  had  seated  himself  at  his  side 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  437 

even  as  Satan  sat  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  and  whispered 
evil  words  of  temptation.  It  was  his  hand  that  filled 
each  brimming  glass,  and.  mingled  with  the  portion  a 
hotter,  more  intoxicating  beverage.  If  they  who  lead 
many  to  righteousness 'shall  shine  as  the  stars  for  ever 
and  ever,  what  shall  be  the  destiny  of  those  who,  like 
the  Dragon  in  the  apocalyptic  vision,  are  not  satisfied 
with  going  down  into  the  gulf  of  perdition  them- 
selves, but  endeavour  to  drag  the  sons  of  light  in  their 
train  ? 

Several  of  the  party  were  now  in  the  boat,  and 
called  upon  Augustus  to  join  them.  He  looked  round 
for  Rose  and  Harriet,  and  not  perceiving  them,  his  eye 
rested  on  little  Mary,  who  had  been  impatiently  wait- 
ing his  notice. 

"  Bless  your  sweet  face,"  cried  he,  catching  the 
lovely  little  creature  in  his  arms  ;  "  who  made  such  a 
cherub  of  you?  Come,  don't  you  want  to  go  with 
me  in  the  boat,  and  sail  like  another  Robinson  Cru- 
soe?" 

Mary  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  in  ecstacy  at 
the  thought,  and  Augustus  springing  into  the  boat,  it 
pushed  from  the  shore,  the  oars  keeping  time  to  the 
music  as  they  dipped,  and  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
gilded  the  white  foam  they  left  behind. 

Harriet  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mary,  elevated  as  she 
was  in  her  brother's  arms,  as  the  boat  glided  on,  and, 
rushing  to  the  bank,  she  entreated  him  to  return,  as 
she  had  promised  her  mother  not  to  suffer  Mary  to  go 
near  the  boat  or  the  water. 


4G8  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

"Is  she  not  safe  with  me?"  cried  he,  laughing; 
"who  will  take  care  of  her  if  I  do  not?" 

Mary,  at  the  sound  of  her  sister's  imploring  accents, 
remembered  the  parting  injunction  of  her  moiner, 
and  her  heart  smote  her  for  her  disobedience. 

"  Oh,  Augustus  !"  said  she,  "  please  let  me  go  back. 
I  forgot  that  mother  forbid  me— indeed  I  did.  Let 
me  go  to  Harriet— she's  calling  me  yet." 

The  child  bent  forward  with  an  earnest  emotion 
towards  her  sister,  to  show  her  willingness  to  obey  her 
summons.  Augustus  was  standing  near  the  edge  of 
the  boat,  with  one  arm  thrown  around  her,  while  h ) 
kept  time  with  the  other  to  the  regular  rocking  of  the 
slight  bark.  He  was  entirely  unprepared  for  her 
sudden,  springing  motion,  and  before  he  was  fully 
aware  of  losing  his  unguarded  hold,  she  was  seen  flut- 
tering through  the  air,  like  a  wounded  bird,  and  then 
the  waters  parted  and  gushed  over  her  sinking  form, 
the  golden  hair  gleaming  for  a  moment  on  the  surface, 
then  lost  in  the  dark  ripples  of  the  stream.  Shrieks  of 
agony  now  mingled  with  the  gay  notes  that  still  swelled 
on  the  ear ;  all  was  confusion  and  dismay.  Augustus 
plunged  into  the  water  after  his  drowning  sister.  Har- 
riet and  Rose  were  seen  struggling  on  the  bank  with 
those  who  held  them  back  from  the  rnad  attempt  of 
saving  her  with  whom  they  must  have  perished. 

At  length  Augustus  appeared  with  Mary  in  his 
arms,  but  she  was  cold  and  insensible.  Her  lips  and 
cheeks  were  blue,  and  her  little  hands  clenched  and 
rigid.  She  was  borne  to  the  nearest  house,  and  the 
usual  means  of  resuscitation  employed  ;  still  when  her 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  439 

mother  came,  in  answer  to  the  sad  summons  that  had 
just  reached  her,  she  remained  as  cold  as  the  wave 
from  which  she  had  been  drawn. 

After  unavailing  efforts  to  restore  her  she  was  pro- 
nounced dead,  and  was  borne  in  grief  that  mocks  de- 
scription to  the  home  she  had  left  a  few  hours  before, 
the  most  joyous  of  human  beings.  They  laid  her  on 
a  sofa,  and  sympathizing  friends  crowded  round  to 
catch  one  more  look  of  the  sweet  child  consigned  so 
early  to  such  an  awful  doom.  Mrs.  Norwood  knelt 
down  by  her  side,  and  clasping  her  hands  together, 
pressed  them  on  her  heart,  as  if  to  hold  down  its  mur- 
murings.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  heaven  in  wordless 
prayer  for  resignation,  when  a  wild  scream  from  Har- 
riet sent  the  blood  rushing  through  her  veins  with 
startling  rapidity. 

"She  breathes,  mother,  she  breathes!"  exclaimed 
Harriet,  throwing  herself  into  her  mother's  arms  with 
an  hysterical  cry. 

And  truly  she  did  breathe, — faint  and  uncertain  at 
first  the  pale  tints  of  life  began  to  steal  over  the  wan 
hue  of  death,  the  rigid  hands  unclenched,  the  heavy 
lids  slowly  uplifted,  an  indistinct  murmur  escaped  her 
lips.  It  was  then  the  widowed  mother  wept  aloud. 
The  grief  was  silent,  but  her  joy  and  gratitude  burst 
forth.  She  received  her  living  child  to  her  bosom 
once  more,  even  as  Jairus  received  his  daughter  from 
the  dead,  and  she  knew  that  the  Son  of  God  was  pre- 
sent, though  invisible  to  mortal  eye,  with  heart  as  ten- 
derly alive  to  human  misery,  with  arm  as  omnipotent 
to  save,  as  when  He  stood  by  the  grave  of  Lnzaru.-, 


4:10  COURTSHIP   AN])   MAEEIAGE ;     OR,   THE 

and  wept  over  him  he  was  about  to  wake  from  the 
slumbers  of  death.  The  first  words  little  Mary  dis- 
tinctly uttered  were,  "  Where  is  brother?" 

And  "Where  indeed  is  Augustus?''  was  repeated 
by  the  anxious  mother.  It  was  recollected  then  that 
Augustus  had  not  been  seen  since  they  left  the  river's 
side  ;  that  when  it  was  declared  that  Mary  was  tV-ad. 
lie  had  exclaimed  again  and  again,  "What  dead!  Is 
fihe  dead/"  Then  rushed  by  those  who  were  around 
her,  like  a  madman,  and  disappeared. 

A  new  and  agonizing  cause  of  alarm  now  existed. 
The  fears  of  Eose  and  Harriet  were  too  appalling  to  be 
expressed.  Mrs.  Norwood  knew  not  yet  the  cause  of 
their  worst  apprehensions,  though  she  was  told  that  it 
was  from  his  arms  that  Mary  fell. 

All  night  she  sat  by  the  couch  of  Mary,  cherishing 
warmth  in  her  still  shivering  frame,  praying  for  her 
son,  fearing  she  knew  not  what,  and  listening  to  the 
ci;lio  of  his  name  as  she  sometimes  heard  it  borne  on 
tha  night  wind.  Harriet  could  not  remain  within ;  she 
followed  Eose  to  the  scene  of  their  past  festivity,  where 
the  people  were  confusedly  mingled,  looking  up  and 
down  the  stream,  and  shouting  till  the  sound  rolled 
buck  again  on  their  cars,  the  name  of  Augustus.  As 
the  torches  and  lanterns  gleamed  fitfully  through  the 
shades,  Rose  beheld  a  dark  object  near  the  bank,  and 
running  towards  it  she  discovered  the  hat  of  Augus- 
tus, with  his  gloves  lying  beside  it.  At  these  dumb 
witnesses  of  his  mournful  destiny,  Eose  sunk  in  speech- 
jony  on  the  sand,  where  she  lay  unnoticed  in  the 
c  Nxitcmciit  and  confusion,  and  when  she  was  found, 


JOYS   AND   SOBBOWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  441 

she  was  perfectly  insensible,  clasping  the  gloves  to  her 
bosom,  her  hair  and  garments  damp  and  wet  with  the 
chill  night  dews. 

"It  was  a  pity,"  as  a  kind  neighbor  said,  who  fol- 
lowed her  to  her  own  home,  where  they  bore  her — 
"  it  was  a  pity  to  bring  her  to  herself,  and  see  her  take 
on  so  bitterly." 

The  next  day  the  deep,  continuous  roaring  of  can- 
non was  heard  all  along  the  banks  of  the  river,  where 
the  people  still  thronged,  in  the  hope  of  discovering 
the  body  of  him  who  they  supposed  had  made  his  own. 
grave  in  its  channel.  It  was  all  in  vain.  The  waters, 
agitated  by  the  concussion,  heaved  and  subsided,  and 
heaved  again — then  sinking  back  into  a  sullen  calm, 
betrayed  not  the  secrets  of  its  bosom. 

For  several  days  the  village  continued  in  a  state  of 
excitement:  but  after  a  while  the  conviction  that 
Augustus  was  drowned,  being  universally  felt,  all 
deplored,  some  pitied,  some  condemned  him;  yet  all 
resumed  their  former  occupations,  and  gradually  suf- 
fered his  name  to  die  away  on  their  lips  and  his 
memory  from  their  hearts — all  but  two  families,  from 
which  smiles  and  gladness  seemed  banished  for  ever. 
It  was  many  weeks  before  Eose  was  able  to  leave  her 
room,  and  when  she  did,  she  looked  like  the  ghost  of 
herself.  Her  long  exposure  to  the  night-air,  and  her 
exhausting  paroxysms  of  agony,  acting  on  a  naturally 
delicate  constitution,  had  brought  on  a  lingering  ill- 
ness, from  which  many  thought  she  never  would 
recover;  and  when  she  was  seen  moving  about  with 
such  a  languid  step  and  mournful  countenance,  and 


442  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

such  an  air  of  broken  keartedness,  her  friends  folt  as 
if  they  could  scarcely  congratulate  her  on  her  re- 
covery. She  went  nowhere  but  to  Mrs.  Norwood's ; 
except  to  visit  the  abodes  of  sickness  and  poverty, 
and  when  on  such  errands,  her  steps  grew  more  light 
and  her  eyes  less  sad,  for  even  disease  and  chill 
penury  smiled  at  her  approach,  and  she  felt  while 
she  could  thus  impart  blessings  to  others,  she  did  not 
live  in  vain.  It  seemed  to  her  ihat  if  Augustus  had 
lived,  and  she  had  seen  him  s.  radually  given  up  to 
the  dominion  of  the  fatal  vice  that  had  been  his  des- 
truction, she  could  have  ceased  to  love  him ;  or  had 
he  died  on  the  bed  of  sickness  reconciled  to  his  God, 
and  trusting  in  his  Saviour,  she  could  have  learned 
resignation ;  but  there  was  something  so  awful  and 
dark  and  mysterious  about  his  fate,  there  was  so  much 
reason  to  believe  he  had  committed  that  deed  for 
which  there  is  no  repentance  or  hopes  of  pardon,  his 
memory  was  associated  with  images  of  shame  and  woe 
and  dread.  When  with  his  mother  and  sister,  she 
never  breathed  his  name;  she  could  not  do  it,  but 
their  eyes  would  often  fill  with  tears  when  they  met, 
and  their  voices  falter,  indicating  the  subject  on  which 
their  thoughts  were  dwelling.  Mary  was  the  only  one 
who  mourned  for  him  aloud.  The  sorrows  of  child- 
hood must  be  expressed  in  words,  and  Mary's  inno- 
cent and  overflowing  tongue  often  gave  unutterable 
pain.  She  was  too  young  to  understand  their  mourn- 
ful silence,  and  fearing  they  were  forgetting  him, 
whom  she  loved  so  well,  she  tried  to  make  up,  by  her 


JOTS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  443 

own  ardent  expressions  of  love   and  grief,  for  their 
suspected  injustice  to  bis  memory. 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  the  third  was  rolling 
on;  still  Rose,  faith  M  to  her  early  love,  refused  to 
listen  to  other  vows.  Her  former  persecutor  renewed 
his  addresses,  but  she  turned  from  him  with  loathing. 
She  had  heard  the  part  he  had  acted,  and  looked  upon 
him  as  the  destroyer  of  Augustus.  Harriet  was  mar- 
ried to  a  young  man,  whom  she  had  long  known  and 
valued,  and  gone  far  from  the  home  of  her  youth,  while 
Rose  clung  to  NTS.  Norwood,  and  even  as  Ruth  clave 
to  Naomi,  and  rilled  a  daughter's  place  in  her  bosom. 

One  evening,  about  the  twilight  hour,  Mrs.  Nor- 
wood sat  in  the  piazza  that  fronted  the  dwelling,  with 
Rose  and  Mary,  shaded  by  the  sweet  brier  and  honey- 
suckle, that  ran  trailing  round  the  walls.  The  last 
sunbeams  were  melting  into  shadows,  and  gave  a  rich, 
bronze-like  hue  to  the  distant  landscape ;  sprinkling  the 
nearer  objects  with  rays  of  scattering  gold,  and  fring- 
ing the  clouds  with  living  crimson.  Mary  sat  with  her 
head  leaning  on  her  mother's  lap,  and  her  fair  ringlets, 
now  darkening  into  brown,  were  tossed  back  from  her 
brow,  with  the  wild  grace  of  childhood.  She  was 
taller  than  she  was  two  years  before :  but  her  face  was 
scarcely  changed.  Her  eyes  were  as  intensely  blue, 
and  they  were  now  lifted  up  to  her  mother's  face,  with 
that  peculiar  expression  which  assimilated  her  to  the 
likeness  of  a  cherub. 

'  I  wish  I  were  a  painter,"  said  Rose,  who  sat  the 
other  side  of  Mrs.  Norwood ;  "and  I  would  sketch 


44 i         COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,  THE 

this  beautiful  sunset  view,  with  Mary  exactly  in  her 
present  attitude,  looking  up  into  your  eyes." 

"And  who  would  paint  you,  Rose?"  said  Mary; 
"  for  you  are  the  prettiest  of  the  whole." 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Rose,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile; 
"  I  must  not  be  put  in  at  all.  I  should  spoil  the  pic- 
ture." 

"  Well,  you  must  be  sure  to  put  that  gentleman  in 
that's  coming  up  the  street,"  said  Mary.  '•  I  can  see 
him  through  trees." 

The  path  which  led  to  Mrs.  Norwood's  door  was 
•winding,  and  thickly  shaded  with  trees :  so  much  so, 
that  though  they  were  aware  of  the  stranger's  ap- 
proach to  their  own  door,  they  could  catch  but  glimpses 
of  his  person,  till  he  came  to  the  very  steps  of  the 
piazza.  Before  they  had  time  to  breathe  or  speak,  he 
rushed  towards  Mary  and  snatching  her  in  his  arms, 
with  a  wild  cry,  sank  down  on  his  knees  and  ex- 
claimed, 

"  Oh  !  my  God— I  thank  thee — I  bless  thee — I  am 
not  then  a  murderer."  Then  falling  prostrate  at  Mrs. 
Norwood's  feet,  again  repeated  the  thrilling  ejacula- 
tion—" My  God— T  bless  thee !" 

There  is  a  joy  that  baffles  description,  joy  so  deep, 
and  overwhelming,  it  struggles  in  vain  for  words  and 
finds  utterance  only  in  tears  and  sobs  and  sounds  re- 
sembling woe.     As  the  "Widow  of  Nain  received  her 
only  son  alive,  from  the  bier,  as  the  mourning  sisters 
of  Bethany  welcomed  their  brother  from  the 
so  was  the  long-lost  son,  brother  and  lov 
And  if  there  is  joy  in  heaven  over  the  repenting  sin- 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  445 

ner  and  returning  prodigal,  we  may  believe  the  holy 
angels  themselves  sympathized  in  this  affecting  scene 
It  was  long  before  sufficient  composure  was  obtained 
for  him  to  relate,  or  them  to  hear,  the  mystery  of  his 
absence  explained. 

It  was  not  till  after  the  friends,  who  had  gathered 
in  at  the  tidings,  were  departed,  (for  the  news  of  his 
return  spread  like  wild-fire  through  the  village)  and 
they  were  in  the  retirement  of  their  own  household, 
they  could  listen  to  his  story.  The  evening  lamps 
illumined  a  pale  and  agitated,  but  happy  looking 
group,  clustered  closely  round  the  speaker,  while  he 
gave,  interrupted  by  a  thousand  emotions,  the  follow- 
ing narration. 

The  night  of  his  disappearance,  when  he  heard  it 
positively  declared  that  Mary  was  dead,  he  remembered 
nothing  but  the  wild  purpose  of  flying  far  as  the 
winds  of  Heaven  could  bear  him,  as  if  he  could  fly 
from  himself,  or  escape  from  the  scorpions  that  were 
writhing  in  his  breast.  How  far  he  wandered  he  knew 
not,  nor  when  his  strength  and  reason  forsook  him. 
He  found  himself,  on  recovering  the  use  of  his  senses, 
in  a  tent,  by  the  way-side;  a  most  benignant  looking 
gentleman,  bending  over  him,  and  a  lovely  lady  bath- 
ing his  temples  and  chafing  his  hands,  with  all  a  wo- 
man's tenderness.  They  were  travellers  to  the  far 
west,  who  having  provided  themselves  with  every 
comfort  and  accommodation,  had  encamped  during 
the  night  under  the  shade  of  the  trees.  He  had  been 
probably  attracted  by  the  glimmer  of  their  light,  and 
having  approached  it,  fell  exhausted,  chilled  and  un- 


446  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,  THE 

conscious  of  the  cares  that  were  extended  towards  tho 
apparently  expiring  stranger. 

The  next  morning  he  was  :;ble  to  rise,  but  he  had 
remained  so  long  in  his  drenched  clothes,  with  such  a 
fiery  current  burning  in  his  veins,  he  was  seized  with 
a  slow  fever,  and  was  compelled  to  accept  the  offers 
of  these  kind  Samaritans.  They  spread  a  pallet  for 
him  on  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  stopped  when  he 
was  too  weary  to  go  on,  nor  did  they  apply  their 
ministrations  to  his  body  alone ;  for  their  holy  con- 
versation was  a  balm  to  his  wounded  spirit,  and  the 
despair  that  had  succeeded  the  keen  agonies  of  re- 
morse, gradually  softened  into  a  more  godly  sorrow. 
He  went  with  them  to  their  western  home,  and  there 
he  remained,  believing  his  name  must  be  accursed  in 
his  own.  On  the  return  of  health,  he  assisted  his 
friend  in  clearing  the  wilderness,  and  diffusing  around 
the  blessings  of  civilization  and  refinements  of  taste. 
He  had  told  him  his  history,  and  the  solemn  determi- 
nation he  had  made,  if  God  gave  him  strength  to 
keep  it,  to  make  himself  a  new  name  and  fame,  in  a 
place  where  he  was  unknown,  and  to  struggle  with  his 
prevailing  sin,  till  he  conquered  even  at  the  'sacrifice 
of  life.  He  did  struggle  and  came  off  victorious.  He 
could  see  the  wine- cup  and  the  fire-cup  too,  pass  by, 
untempted,  for  "the  voice  of  the  charmer  had  ceased 
to  charm,  charm  he  never  so  wisely."  It  was  long 
before  he  dared  to  believe  that  he  was  indeed  free, 
that  he  could  walk  forth  without  the  dread  of  return 
log  to  the  prison-house  of  shame;  but  when  time  had 
proved  the  reality  of  his  reformation,  he  resolved  to 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  -447 

return  once  more  to  the  home  he  had  made  desolate, 
and  say  to  his  mother,  as  the  prodigal  to  his  injured 
father: — "  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven,  and  against 
tliee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son — 
but  take  me  to  your  bosom  again,  and  let  me  bind 
up  the  wounds  I  have  made."  He  thought  of  her 
who  had  loved  him  even  in  his  degradation.  He 
dared  not  think  she  loved  him  still,  but  if  he  were 
doomed  to  see  her  the  wife  of  another,  he  felt  the  pun- 
ishment was  just.  He  thought  too  how  he  would  visit 
the  grave  of  little  Mary,  and  there,  with  a  broken  and 
contrite  heart,  renew  his  covenant  vows  to  his  Maker, 
and  supplicate  his  forgiveness  and  grace.  And  now 
he  was  seated  at  his  mother's  side ;  the  forgiven  and 
blest,  with  that  sweet,  rosy,  loving  being,  clinging 
around  his  neck,  in  all  the  warmth  and  bloom  of  her 
loveliness;  whom  he  believed  c*old  and  mouldering 
beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley,  and  Rose  too,  half 
enclosed  in  his  arms,  still  faithful  and  confiding;  her 
eyes  beaming  with  modest  love  and  holy  gratitude, 
bending  on  that  manly  countenance,  from  which  every 
darkening  trace  was  swept  away. 

Let  it  not  be  said  then,  that  the  man  "  who  delib- 
erates is  lost."  He  may  deliberate  between  the  choice 
of  virtue  and  vice ;  he  may  even  choose  the  path  of 
vice,  and  leave  the  boundaries  of  virtue,  but  he  may 
return  to  wisdom's  ways  and  find  them  pleasantness, 
and  her  paths  peace.  The  Ethiopian  cannot  change 
his  skin,  nor  the  leopard  his  spots,  but  they  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  do  evil,  may  learn  to  do  well. 


4-1:8  COUKTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 


gttrqr. 


WE  sat  together  in  the  little  back  parlor  the  even- 
ing before  our  father's  departure.  He  was  a  sea- 
captain,  and  bound  for  a  distant  voyage.  We  had  not 
been  separated  from  him  since  our  mother's  death, 
and  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  coming  loneliness,  I  lis- 
tened to  the  autumnal  wind  that  sighed  against  the 
windows,  thinking  it  the  most  melancholy  of  earthly 
sounds.  My  father  put  his  arm  affectionately  round 
each  of  us,  as  we  sat  on  either  side  of  him,  and  drew 
us  closer  to  him.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  but 
gazed  steadily  into  the  fire,  as  if  he  feared  to  look 
upon  us,  lest  he  should  be  betrayed  into  some  immnn- 
ly  weakness.  "My  daughters,"  said  he  at  length, 
"  my  heart  is  relieved  from  great  anxiety  on  your  ac- 
count. I  have  two  letters,  received  almost  simulta- 
neously, both  containg  affectionate  offers  of  a  home 
to  one  of  you,  during  my  absence.  The  choice  must 
be  left  to  yourselves." 

"  Who  are  they  from  ?"  cried  Laura,  eagerly ; 
"  tell  me,  dear  father,  do  ?" 

"One  is  from  your  Aunt  Mercy,"  replied  my  fa- 
ther, llere  Laura^s  countenance  fell.  "  The  other  is 
from  Mrs.  Belmont,  whom  you  once  visited  and  ad- 
mired." 

"Oh!  yes,"  exclaimed  Laura,  with  sparkling 
"I  remember   Mrs.   Belmont  perfectly.     She  is  the 


JOYS   AXD   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  419 

most  charming  woman  I  ever  saw,  has  the  most  ele- 
gant house,  and  keeps  the  most  delightful  company. 
I  thought  when  I  was  there  I  should  be  the  happiest 
creature  in  the  world  if  I  could  live  as  she  did.  Oh  ! 
father,  let  me  go  to  Mrs.  Belmont's,  and  send  Fanny 
to  Aunt  Mercy's. 

"And  what  objections  have  you  to  go  to  Aunt 
Mercy's  ?"  said  my  father,  without  addressing  me,  who 
continued  to  hold  his  hand  in  silence,  for  my  heart 
was  too  full  to  speak. 

"Oh!  I  never  did  like  Aunt' Mercy,"  said  Lnum 
with  a  look  of  disgust.  "  She  is  sb  precise,  and  formal,' 
and  fanatical.  She  is  an  old  maid,  too,  you  know,  and 
they  say  they  are  always  peevish  and  ill-natured.  Then 
she  lives  in  a  small  house,  almost  in  the  wood,  and  sees 
no  company  but  the  cats.  I  am  sure  I  would  die  with 
home-sickness,  if  I  were  to  stay  with  Aunt  Mercy." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  Fanny  will  do  ?"  asked  my 
father,  in  a  tone  which  I  thought  breathed  of  rebuke. 
"Fanny,"  repeated  Laura,  as  if  she  were  waking  to 
a  consciousness  of  my  existence,  "  why,  Fanny  is  very 
different  from  me— and  I  dare  say  would  content  her- 
self very  well.  Besides,  I  am  the  oldest,  and  have  a 
right  to  the  first  choice,  and  if  I  choose  Mrs.  Belmont's, 
Fanny  is  obliged  to  go  to  Aunt  Mercy's,  whether  she 
wishes  it  or  not." 

"I  should  like  to  see  a  little  more  regard  for  your 
sister's  comfort,  Laura,"  he  replied,  knitting  his  brows. 
"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  manifest  so  selfish  a  disposi- 
tion, and  as  a  just  punishment,  I  shall  insist  upon  the 
28 


45C  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;     OR,   THE 

reverse;  or,  at  least,  that  Fanny  should  exercise  the 
privilege  of  selection." 

Laura  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  tears,  declaring 
that  she  would  rather  stay  at  home  alone,  and  would 
do  so ;  for,  as  for  going  to  Aunt  Mercy's,  it  was  out  of 
the  question. 

"  Since  you  give  me  the  privilege  of  choosing,  dear 
father,"  said  I,  distressed  at  Laura's  violent  emotion, 
and  the  motive  which  excited  it,  "I  shall  be  as  happy 
with  Aunt  Mercy  as  I  could  be  with  any  one  while 
you  are  absent,  and  I  think  it  very  kind  in  her  to  make 
the  offer.  I  should  feel  as  little  at  home  at  Mrs.  Bel- 
mont's  as  Laura  would  at  Aunt  Mercy's." 

My  father  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head,  and  shading 
back  the  ringlets  from  my  forehead,  gave  me  a  look  of 
approbation  that  would  have  repaid  me  for  the  sacri- 
fice of  my  life,  if  it  were  possible  to  enjoy  the  reward 
of  such  a  sacrifice. 

"  You  are  a  good  child,  Fanny,"  said  he,  "  and  you 
will  be  a  happy  one  wherever  you  are.  How  much 
your  eyes  are  like  your  mother's  now  you  are  looking 
down  I  and  you  are  like  her  in  character  too.  She  was 
always  ready  to  yield  her  own  gratification  when  it 
interfered  with  the  happiness  of  others.  She  never 
thought  of  herself."  Laura  looked  uneasy  while  my 
father  was  speaking.  The  pleasure  of  gratified  desire 
and  the  mortification  of  rebuked  selfishness  struggled 
in  her  countenance.  "If  I  ever  return,"  said  my 
father,  rising,  and  walking  to  and  fro  with  folded  arms 
and  bent  brow,  "  we  shall  see  who  has  made  the  wisest 
choice." 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  451 

I  shall  pass  over  my  father's  departure  and  its  sad 
accompaniments.  Minute  detail  is  seldom  interesting 
unless  it  leads  to  the  development  of  character,  and  as 
it  is  Aunt  Mercy's  character  that  I  wish  to  describe, 
rather  than  my  own,  I  hasten  to  the  moment  when  I 
became  an  inmate  of  her  household,  Laura  having  pre- 
viously been  received  into  the  home  of  Mrs.  Belmont. 
I  had  but  a  dim  recollection  of  Aunt  Mercy,  never 
having  seen  her  since  my  early  childhood.  She  lived 
in  the  deepest  seclusion,  seldom  visited  her  relatives 
and  friends,  and  when  her  visits  were  made  to  my 
mother  I  was  at  school,  so  that  it  was  only  through  the 
medium  of  others  I  had  obtained  my  knowledge  of  her 
character.  I  knew  she  must  be  far  advanced  in  years, 
being  the  sister  of  my  grandmother,  not  of  my  mother, 
and  a  feeling  of  awe  began  to  steal  over  me  as  I  drew 
near  her  dwelling,  a  kind  of  wintry  chill,  indicating 
that  the  snows  of  life  were  near.  It  was  a  clear, 
autumnal  evening;  the  dark  brown  woods  skirted  the 
road  on  cither  side,  and  here  and  there,  through  the 
rustling  foliage,  I  could  see  the  stars  sparkle  and  the 
deep  blue  sky  shining,  and  sometimes  I  could  catch  a 
glimpse  of  waters  flashing  through  the  underbrush, 
and  sometimes  I  could  hear  the  low,  gurgling  sound  of 
a  stream,  whose  murmurs  alone  revealed  its  existence. 
The  great  secret  of  melancholy  seemed  diffused  over 
the  world.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  alone  in  creation.  I  had 
no  companion  with  me  in  the  carriage.  I  had  left  no 
friends  behind.  My  father  was  now  launched  on  the 
billows,  perhaps  never  to  return.  My  mother  slept 
the  lost,  deep  sleep.  I  was  going  to  one  who,  from  agfr, 


452  COURTSHIP   AND    MARRIAGE;     OR,    THE 

sanctity,  and  personal  peculiarities,  seemed  as  far 
removed  from  the  sphere  in  which  I  had  been  moving, 
as  the  planets  above,  revolving  in  their  lone  and  dis- 
tant orbits.  Happy  they  who  have  never  felt  that 
orphanage  of  the  soul  which  came  over  me  with  such 
a  dreary  and  oppressive  power.  As  the  carriage  turned 
into  the  yard,  the  silence  surrounding  the  low  white 
dwelling,  almost  embosomed  in  shade — the  solitary 
light  that  gleamed  through  one  curtained  window — • 
the  complaining  notes  of  a  whippoonvill  perched  near 
the  wall — added  to  the  solemnity  of  the  hour,  and 
imagination,  delineating  the  form  of  Aunt  Mercy  with 
cold  grey  eyes,  and  wintry  countenance,  and  ancient 
costume,  threw  me  into  such  a  state  of  nervous  debility, 
I  had  hardly  strength  to  descend  from  the  carriage  and 
enter  the  door  that  opened  as  if  by  magic  to  receive 
me,  for  I  had  heard  no  sound  of  life.  At  first  I  thought 
\t  was  a  statue  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  inner 
apartment,  so  still,  and  pale,  and  erect  it  looked,  arrayed 
in  a  robe  of  white,  whose  folds  fell  voluminously  from 
the  neck  to  the  feet,  and  remained  as  calm  as  those  of 
a  winding  sheet.  A  cap  with  a  close  crimped  border 
surrounded  the  face,  whose  pallid  hue  corresponded 
with  the  death-like  impression  the  dress  had  mad.'.  I 
trembled  as  I  approached,  as  if  an  inhabitant  of 
another  world  were  waiting  to  receive  me,  when  the 
tall,  still  figure,  extending  its  hands,  spoke  in  a  sweet, 
tremulous  voice,  "  Fanny,  my  child,  is  it  you  ?  welcome 
to  the  home  of  the  aged." 

At  the  sound  of  those  kind,  living  accents,  the  spell 
01  supernatural  awe  was  broken,  and  throwing  rny 


JOYS  AXD   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  453 

self  into  the  arms  which  involuntarily  opened  to  en- 
fold me,  I  wept  myself  into  calmness.  I  was  hardly 
conscious  of  what  was  passing  around  me,  till  I  found 
myself  seated  by  a  cheerful  fire,  whose  blaze  revealed, 
while  it  warmed,  the  pure,  white  walls,  the  white  cur- 
tains, that  dropped  to  the  floor  without  a  single  fes- 
toon, the  white,  ungirdled  dress  of  Aunt  Mercy:  and 
by  its  bright  reflection,  I  could  see  too,  her  gray  parted 
hair,  divided  with  the  precision  of  a  geometrical  line, 
and  her  dark,  deep-set  eyes,  that  beamed  like  lamps 
through  the  mists  of  age.  There  was  a  fascination  in 
the  glance  of  those  eyes,  as  they  were  steadfastly  fixed 
on  me.  They  did  not  seem  looking  at  my  face,  but 
my  soul.  The  memory,  not  the  fire  of  human  pas- 
sion slumbered  in  their  solemn  depths.  But,  when 
withdrawing  their  fixed  gaze  from  me,  and  lifting 
them  upwards,  she  remained  for  a  few  moments  in 
the  same  attitude,  with  her  hands  folded,  there  was  a 
holy  and  sublime  abstraction,  that  showed  her 
thoughts  were  withdrawn  from  all  external  objects,  and 
were  holding  communion  with  the  Great  Invisible. 
Then  again  turning  to  me,  she  said,  as  if  thinking 
aloud,  rather  than  addressing  me — "  When  I  last  saw 
her,  she  was  little  more  than  a  smiling  infant ;  and 
now  she  is  what  her  mother  was  full  twenty  years 
ago.  Time  I  time  !  what  a  solemn  thing  is  time.  It 
carries  us  on,  day  and  night,  without  slumbering  or 
pausing,  and  we  heed  it  not,  till  borne  like  me,  almost 
to  the  shores  of  eternity,  we  listen  with  wonder  to  the 
dashing  of  the  billows  we  have  passed  over,  and  look 
back  upon  the  dark  and  troubled  waters  that  heave 


454  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   TUB 

themselves  into  rest  on  the  borders  of  the  promised 
land." 

I  gazed  with  reverence  on  this  hoary  mariner  of 
time,  thus  surveying  with  a  backward  glance  the  un- 
travelled  wilderness  before  me ;  but  I  sighed  to  think 
she  must  have  survived  the  affections  and  yearning 
sympathies  of  her  kind,  and  that  I  must  learn  to  re- 
press in  her  presence  the  ebullitions  of  youthful  emo- 
tion. Her  next  words  convinced  me  how  erroneous 
was  this  conclusion. 

"  I  pity  you,  my  child.  You  have  a  gloomy  pros- 
pect before  you,  as  the  companion  of  age  and  loneli- 
ness. But  the  fountain  of  love  is  not  dried  up  in  my 
veins.  The  current  flows  warm  and  deep  beneath  the 
ice.  If  you  seek  wisdom,  rather  than  pleasure,  you 
may  not  in  after  years  reflect  with  sorrow  that  you 
lingered  a  little  by  the  way-side,  communing  with  an 
aged  pilgrim,  who  could  tell  you  something  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  journeys  of  life.  And  something 
too,  I  trust,"  added  she,  placing  her  hand  reverently 
on  the  Bible,  which  lay  on  the  table  by  her  side,  "  of 
that  eternal  country  whither  the  young,  as  well  as  the 
old,  are  rapidly  travelling." 

Though  I  had  been  but  a  half  hour  in  Aunt  Mer- 
cy's presence,  I  had  already  gathered  some  precious 
lessons,  and  I  looked  forward  to  the  hoard  of  wi.^lom 
I  might  acquire  during  my  daily  communion  with 
her.  Tenderness  began  to  mingle  with  the  awe  she 
inspired,  and  when  I  retired  to  my  own  room,  winch 
was  an  apartment  adjoining  hers,  I  thought  though 
the  hours  passed  with  my  venerable  relative  might  be 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  45o 

very  serious  ones,  they  need  not  consequently  be  un- 
happy. "When  I  first  entered  the  chamber,  however, 
I  could  not  repress  a  nervous  shudder.  The  same 
cold  uniformity  of  white  was  visible  that  distin- 
guished the  room  below.  White  walls,  white  curtains 
to  bed  and  windows,  and  an  old-fashioned  toilet  table, 
with  a  long,  flowing,  white  muslin  petticoat,  all  pre- 
sented a  most  wintry  aspect.  "  Surely,"  said  I,  "  Aunt 
Mercy  has  selected  white,  because  it  is  the  livery  of 
angels.  I  shall  not  dare  to  think  an  unpolluted 
thought,  surrounded  by  such  emblematic  purity.  I 
shall  be  reminded  of  Him  in  whoso  sight  '  the  heavens 
are  not  clean,'  and  '  who  sitteth  on  a  white  throne  in 
the  midst  of  his  glory.' " 

The  powerful  influence  of  Aunt  Mercy's  solemn 
character,  was  already  visible  in  my  reflections.  That 
influence  pursued  me  even  in  my  dreams;  for  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  sailing  alone  in  a  little  bark  over 
an  ocean,  that  seemed  illimitable  in  extent,  and  un- 
fathomable in  depth,  and  that  a  tall,  white  figure, 
defined  on  the  dark  and  distant  horizon  beckoned  me 
onward,  and  ever  and  anon  lifted  a  lamp  that  blazed 
iu  her  right  hand,  and  sent  a  long  stream  of  bright- 
ness over  the  abyss  of  waters.  As  I  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  the  boat  glided  with  inconceivable  swift- 
ness, the  lam])  flashed  with  such  intolerable  splendour, 
that  it  awoke  me,  and  opened  my  eyes,  the  sunbeams 
darted  through  the  opening  of  the  curtains  directly 
in  my  face,  and  explained  the  vision  of  the  lamp.  My 
first  though  was  a  dread  of  Aunt  Mercy's  displeasure 
for  slumbering  so  late,  for  I  had  heard  that  she  break- 


456  CJUllTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE:    OR,   THE 

fasted  at  sunrise,  but  the  kind  manner  in  which  she 
greeted  me  when  I  descended  dispelled  my  fears. 

"  I  knew  you  must  be  fatigued  from  your  journey," 
said  she,  "and  would  not  suffer  you  to  be  wakened; 
but  to-morrow  we  will  rise  together,  for  your  youth- 
ful frame  can  hardly  require  more  hours  for  repose 
than  mine.  I  always  think  when  the  Lord  of  day  is 
on  his  way  rejoicing  and  scattering  blessings  in  his 
path,  it  is  a  shame  for  us  to  be  laggards  behind." 

I  blushed  when  I  recollected  what  a  laggard  I  had 
been,  and  that  I,  the  young  and  buoyant,  had  even 
this  duty  to  learn  from  the  aged  and  infirm.  Yet  I 
could  hardly  call  Aunt  Mercy  infirm.  Her  figure 
was  still  erect  and  dignified,  her  step  unfaltering;  and 
though  time's  engraving  hand  had  left  its  tracery  on 
her  cheek  and  brow,  her  eyes  at  limes,  not  only 
flashed  with  the  brilliancy,  but  expressed  the  energy 
of  earlier  years.  She  seldom  smiled,  but  when  she 
did,  her  countenance  exhibited  an  appearance  of  in- 
describable serenity,  reminding  me  of  a  lake  by 
moonlight,  when  the  wind  just  curls  its  surface,  and 
the  ra3^s  gently  quiver  in  the  motion.  The  first  day 
I  was  excited  by  the  charm  of  novelty.  The  perfect 
quiet  and  neatness  that  reigned  in  the  household;  the 
-clock-work  regularity  with  which  every  thing  was 
performed ;  the  industry  that  harmonised  so  beautifully 
with  this  order  and  tranquillity,  astonished  while  it 
delighted  me.  It  seemed  impossible  to  me  Hint 
human  beings  could  live,  and  move,  and  work  with 
so  little  bustle.  Yet  there  was  constant  activity. 
Aunt  Mercy  herself  was  never  idle  a  moment :  .*ho 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  457 

was  either  knitting,  sewing  or  reading;  indeed,  her 
knitting  needles  seemed  a  part  of  her  fingers,  and  the 
stocking  to  grow  under  her  touch,  from  a  natural,  not 
an  artificial  process.  I  wondered  why  she  manufac- 
tured so  many  articles,  for  which  she  could  have  no 
possible  use  ;  but  I  soon  learned  that  many  were  the 
feet  she  covered  by  her  industry,  as  well  as  the 
mouths  she  fed  with  her  bounty.  Never  was  name 
more  appropriately  given,  for  far  as  her  liberal  hand 
could  reach,  her  benefactions  and  her  care  extended. 
She  never  encouraged  idleness  or  vice,  but  wherever 
there  was  infancy,  orphanage,  infirmity,  and  age, 
united  with  poverty,  her  charities  descended  gently 
and  unostentatious  as  the  dews  of  heaven. 

"  You  make  me  ashamed  of  the  indolence  of  my 
past  life,"  said  I,  as  I  watched  her  unwearid  fingers ; 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  in  vain ;  I  have  been  praised 
because  I  was  willing  to  do  something  for  myself,  and 
now  I  feel  that  it  is  only  what  we  do  for  others  de- 
serves commendation." 

"  Praise  is  sweet,"  replied  Aunt  Mercy,  "  from  the 
lips  of  those  we  love,  but  if  we  do  good  to  others  for 
the  saJce  of  this  reward,  we  sacrifice  the  blessing  of 
Ilirn  who  has  presented  to  us  higher  and  holier 
motives  for  action.  Do  not  praise  me,  my  Fanny, 
because  I  endeavour  to  '  do  diligently  what  my  hands 
find  to  do,'  for  the  shadows  of  twilight  are  falling 
round  me,  and  that  dark  night  will  soon  come, 
therein  'no  man  can  work.'" 

It  may  be  believer!  by  some,  that  the  solemnity  of 
Aunt  Mercy's  language,  her  constant  allusions  to 


458  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

death  and  eternity,  and  the  inspired  quotations  with 
which  her  conversation  abounded,  would  fill  my 
young  and  ardent  imagination  with  gloom  and  terror. 
But  it  was  not  so ;  they  exalted,  instead  of  depress- 
ing me ;  they  created  in  me  a  thirst  for  sacred  know- 
ledge, a  spirituality  of  feeling  as  sublime  as  it  was 
novel — I  could  exclaim  with  a  more  heavenly  ambi- 
tion, than  that  which  animated  the  Egyptian  enchan- 
tress, "I  feel  immortal  longings  in  me." 

It  was  a  somewhat  novel  sight,  to  see  such  close 
companionship  and  increasing  congeniality  of  feeling, 
between  two  beings,  so  far  removed  by  age  from  each 
other — the  snows  of  winter  only  drew  us  closer  to- 
gether, and  I  almost  dreaded  to  witness  the  spring- 
time of  the  year,  lest  in  the  midst  of  its  opening 
splendors,  I  should  lose  something  of  her  divine  in- 
structions. An  occasional  letter  from  Laura,  varied 
the  pleasing  monotony  of  my  existence ;  she  always 
addressed  me  as  "  poor  .Fanny" — then  as  if  that  ex- 
pression of  condolence  satisfied  her  sisterly  affection, 
she  expatiated  on  her  gay  and  happy  life,  and  the 
pleasures  that  courted  her  enjoyment;  her  volatile 
mind  flew  from  on3  subject  to  another,  from  the  the- 
atre to  the  ball-room,  from  the. ball-room  to, the  con- 
cert, &c.,  with  bewildering  speed ;  and  with  all  these 
dazzling  scenes  she  min-l'd  descriptions  of  attending 
gentlemen  :  some  had  "  eyes  of  fire,"  others  "  t<mjurs 
of  eloquence,"  and  "lips  of  music,"  and  all  wer--  in- 
cluded in  the  compendious  epithet,  "  divine."  I  should 
have  pro!;1<'<!  little  by  the  example  and  precepts  of 
the  evangelical  Aunt  Mercy,  if  I  bad  not  revolted  at 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  459 

the  application  of  this  term ;  I  grieved  at  the  levity 
of  her  sentiments ;  I  did  not  envy  her  the  pleasures 
that  had  such  an  intoxicating  influence  on  her  heart ; 
I  did  not  sigh  for  the  admiration  of  that  sex  from 
whose  society  I  was  so  entirely  excluded  ;  I  had  never 
been  accustomed  to  it,  and  the  rapturous  expressions 
of  Laura  astonished  my  young  simplicity.  One  even- 
ing, after  the  perusal  of  one  of  these  letters,  as  I  sat 
at  Aunt  Mercy's  side,  I  ventured  to  address  her  in  a 
more  familiar  manner  than  I  had  ever  done  before.  I 
longed  to  hear  her  explain  the  mystery  of  her  lonely 
life.  u  Dear  Aunt  Mercy,"  said  I,  taking  her  hand  in 
mine,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  "  do  you 
think  it  a  sin  to  love  ?"  She  actually  started  at  the 
question,  and  I  felt  her  hand  tremble  in  my  clasp. 

"  Do  you  ask  idly  ?"  said  she,  fixing  her  deep  eyes 
with  a  melancholy  gaze  on  my  face,  "  or  do  you,  child 
as  you  are,  speak  from  the  heart's  dictates. 

"No,"  answered  I,  blushing  at  the  suggestion.  "I 
know  nothing  yet  of  love,  and  judging  from  Laura's 
allusions,  I  think  I  never  shall.  But  I  have  often 
wondered  why  yon,  who  must  have  been  very  beau- 
tiful indeed,  when  young" — here  a  faint  smile  glim- 
mered over  Aunt  Mercy's  features,  a  lingering  spark 
of  vanity,  flashing  through  the  shades  of  threescore 
and  ten — "why  you  should  have  been" — I  began  to 
hesitate,  for  I  could  not  allow  myself  to  use  Laura's 
expression,  and  say  "an  old  maid" — then  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  I  added,  "why  you  should  have 
been  single,  when  almost  every  one  marries;  I  thought, 
perhaps,  you  believed  it  sinful  to  love  any  one  else 


460  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

but  God."  I  would  have  given  any  thing  to  have  re- 
called the  expression  of  my  childish  curiosity ;  I  was 
terrified  at  the  emotion  exhibited  in  her  usual  placid 
countenance;  her  eyes  assumed  a  look  of  wild  an- 
guish, contrasting  fearfully  with  their  wonted  calm, 
religious  glance ;  then  slowly  lifting  them  to  Heaven, 
and  clasping  her  withered  hands  together,  she  ex- 
claimed, "Sinful!  oh!  my  Father! — sinful  indeed 
must  be  the  passion,  whose  memory  even  now  can 
raise  such  a  tumult  in  these  wintry  veins ;  I  thought 
all  was  peace  here,"  continued  she,  unclasping  hei 
hands,  and  pressing  them  tightly  on  her  breast,  "  the 
peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  understanding;  but  no, 
no,  the  troubled  waters  are  heaving,  heaving  still." 
As  she  reiterated  the  last  words,  her  head  bowed  lower 
and  lower,  her  whole  frame  shook,  and  tears  gathering 
in  large  drops,  glided  down  her  cheeks,  through  chan- 
nels, which  had  long  been  dry.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
committed  sacrilege  in  thus  disturbing  the  holy  calm 
of  her  soul;  a  burst  of  flame,  rising  from  the  still 
waters  that  cover  the  buried  cities  of  the  plain,  could 
not  be  more  awful  or  surprising,  than  this  storm  of 
human  passion,  thus  convulsing  the  bosom  of  age.  I 
knew  not  in  what  manner  to  express  my  penitence 
and  sorrow.  I  wept ;  I  threw  my  arms  around  her  ; 
I  actually  knelt  at  her  feet  and  implored  her  to  for- 
give me.  The  attitude  roused  her  from  her  trance- 
like  state;  she  held  out  her  right  hand,  and  com- 
manded me  to  rise.  I  rose  and  stood  before  her  pale 
and  trembling,  like  a  culprit  uncertain  of  her  doom. 
"Leave  me,  child,  leave  me,"  she  cried,  ''till  I 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.  461 

gain  composure,  from  the  only  source  from  which  the 
weary  and  heavy  laden  can  find  rest — long,  long  years 
have  rolled  away  since  any  human  being  has  struck  the 
chord  your  hand  has  pressed.  I  thought  it  had  ceased 
to  quiver — I  have  deceived  myself;  I  feel  humbled 
in  the  dust ;  I  would  humble  myself  still  more  before 
the  mighty  hand  of  God.  Leave  me  alone,  my  child, 
and  when  I  am  calm  once  more,  you  shall  learn  the 
history  of  my  youth,  and  may  you  profit  by  its 
mournful  lesson." 

I  withdrew  to  my  chamber,  grieved  and  agitated, 
yet  awaiting  with  impatience  the  expected  summons. 
But  I  heard  Aunt  Mercy  enter  her  own  room  and 
close  her  door,  without  recalling  me  to  her  presence. 
She  always  kept  a  light  burning  during  the  night, 
that  she  might  not  disturb  her  servants,  if  one 
were  required,  but  this  night  it  was  extinguished, 
and  accustomed  as  I  had  been  to  see  its  rays  streaming 
beneath  the  door,  I  shuddered  at  the  darkness,  of 
which  my  rashneas  had  been  the  cause.  I  trembled 
when  I  reflected  on  the  might  of  human  passion — 
"  Terrible,  terrible,"  thought  I,  "  must  it  be  in  its 
strength,  if  even  in  decay  it  can  triumph  over  the 
coldness  of  age,  and  roll  its  wild  waves  over  the 
traces  the  Spirit  of  God  has  written  on  the  soul.  Let 
me  be  spared  its  desolating  power ;  let  me  live  on  as 
I  now  do,  calm  and  passionless,  striving  to  walk  in 
the  path  of  duty,  with  an  eye  directed  to  Heaven,  and 
a  heart  devoted  to  God.  Here,  in  this  solitude,  I  am 
secure  from  temptation,  and  can  know  nothing  of  the 


462  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;     OR,   THE 

struggles,  of  which  to-night  I  have  been  a  fearful 
witness." 

The  next  morning  I  almost  feared  to  look  at  Aunt 
Mercy,  expecting  to  see  the  same  wild  and  ngitated 
countenance,  but  the  placidity  of  Heaven  was  on  her 
brow.  There  might  be  an  air  of  deeper  humility  ;  of 
more  saintly  meekness,  if  that  were  possible,  but  there 
was  no  other  change.  I  felt  a  tenderness  for  her  I 
had  never  experienced  before.  Aunt  Mercy,  the 
anchorite,  the  saint,  was  a  being  I  reverenced ;  but 
Aunt  Mercy,  loving  and  suffering,  was  a  being  I 
loved.  The  day  passed  away,  as  usual,  in  industry 
and  quiet,  but  when  the  evening  came  on,  and  wo 
were  seated  again,  side  by  side,  at  the  lonely  hearth, 
my  heart  began  to  palpitate  with  expectation,  for 
Aunt  Mercy  suffered  her  knitting  to  remain  un- 
touched in  her  basket,  and  her  book  lay  unopened  on 
the  table. 

"My  dear  Fanny,"  said  she,  "your  asking  eyes 
shall  not  seek  mine  in  vain  ;  I  have  been  steadily 
looking  at  the  past,  and  am  astonished  at  the  calmness 
with  which  I  can  now  review  events,  from  which  last 
night  I  recoiled  with  such  dread ;  I  have  not  slept, 
but  prayed,  and  towards  the  dawn  of  morning,  it 
seemed  as  if  an  angel  came  and  ministered  unto  me. 
Like  Jacob,  I  had  wrestled  for  the  blessing  and  pre- 
vailed. It  is  humbling  to  me  to  know  that  the  rever- 
ence with  which  you  have  regarded  me  will  be 
diminished,  and  that  you  will  look  upon  me  IMK-O 
forth  as  a  sinful  and  sorrowing  woman  ;  and  I  should 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN"  LIFE.  463 

rejoice  that  you  will  no  longer  ascribe  to  an  erring 
creature,  perfections  which  belong  to  God  alone. 

"When  I  was  young — can  you  roll  back  the  win- 
ters that  have  frosted  my  head,  and  restore  me  to  the 
spring-time  of  life?  If  you  can  you  must  think  of 
me,  at  this  moment,  not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  was,  with 
the  bloom  of  youth  on  my  cheek,  and  its  hopes  warm 
in  my  heart.  Let  this  thought,  my  child,  check  the 
high  throbbings  of  youthful  vanity ;  as  sure  as  you 
live  to  reach  the  confines  of  age,  you  will,  like  me, 
present  but  a  faded  image  of  what  you  once  have 
been ;  the  eyes,  those  windows  from  which  the  soul 
looks  forth,  will  be  darkened  and  the  grasshopper 
prove  a  burthen  to  those  elastic  limbs  !  But  the  soul 
itself,  my  child,  is  undecaying  and  immortal;  and 
can  smile  calmly  over  the  ruins  of  the  body,  in  the 
grandeur  of  its  own  imperishability." 

She  paused,  and  as  I  gazed  wistfully  in  her  face,  I 
thought  that  Ossian  could  never  have  seen  such  a 
countenance  as  Aunt  Mercy's,  when  he  said  that  age 
was  "dark  and  unlovely,"  for  to  me  she  was  still 
beautiful,  in  her  piety  and  meekness,  with  the  chas- 
tened memories  of  other  years  blending,  as  they  now 
were,  with  the  holiest  hopes  of  Heaven. 

"  "When  I  was  young,"  continued  she,  "  I  was  like 
you,  the  companion  of  an  aged  relative,  though  my 
mother  was  living ;  but  having  the  charge  of  a  large 
family,  she  was  willing  to  yield  to  my  grandmother's 
wishes,  that  I  might  be  taken  into  her  household,  even 
as  her  own  child.  I  was  the  youngest  of  the  family, 
and  had  never  been  out,  as  it  is  called,  into  the  world, 


464  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

so  I  was  contented  in  my  new  home,  where  I  had  leis- 
ure to  indulge  in  my  favorite  amusement — reading. 
My  grandmother,  unfortunately,  had  a  large  library  of 
ill-assorted  works,  a  great  portion  of  which  were  ro- 
mances and  plays.  She  never  restrained  me  in  my 
choice,  saying  she  had  always  read  every  thing  she 
liked,  and  had  never  been  injured  by  this  indiscrimi- 
nate reading,  and  she  saw  no  reason  why  children 
should  be  wiser  than  their  grandmothers.  She  was 
fond  of  hearing  me  read  aloud  to  her,  and  all  the  long 
winter  evenings,  while  she  plied  her  knitting  needles, 
I  amused  her  and  delighted  myself  with  the  wildest 
and  most  extravagant  productions.  But  there  were 
some  volumes  containing  scenes  so  highly  wrought, 
which  excited  such  a  thrilling  interest  in  my  bosom;  I 
I  could  not  read  them  to  another.  These  I  reserved 
for  my  secret  perusal;  and  when  summer  built  its 
green  bowers,  I  used  to  conceal  myself  in  their  shades, 
and  perusing  alone  these  impassioned  pages,  forgetting 
every  thing  but  the  visions  they  inspired,  I  became  a 
vain  and  idle  dreamer.  The  realities  of  life  were 
insipid  to  me ;  and  I  was  happy  only  when  breathing 
the  atmosphere  of  the  ideal  world.  My  grandmother 
never  reproved  me  for  my  wanderings.  She  did  not 
seem  to  miss  my  companionship,  for,  in  the  genial  sea- 
son, she  loved  to  sit  in  the  open  door,  and  look  at  the 
flowers  as  they  opened  to  the  sunbeams,  and  listen  to* 
the  songs  of  the  birds  as  they  made  their  nests  in  the 
trees  that  shaded  the  walls.  I  had  one  brother,  two  or 
three  years  older  than  myself,  who  always  visited  me 
during  his  college  vacations,  and  transformed  our  quiet 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  465 

dwelling  to  a  scene  of  gaiety  and  amusement.  Arthur 
was  a  liglit-hcaded,  frolicksorne  youth,  with  a  tem- 
perament very  different  from  mine.  He  loved  to  sport 
with  the  foam  of  the  ocean ;  /to  fathom  the  depths  of 
its  waves.  And  now,  Fanny,  look  on  me  no  longer. 
I  would  not  waver  in  my  purpose,  and  I  cannot  bear 
that  wistful  gaze  ;  it  melts  me,  and  I  would  have  my 
eyes  dry  and  my  heart  firm. 

"  Poor  Arthur  came  to  us  the  last  year  of  his  colle- 
giate term,  accompanied  by  a  classmate  of  whom  he 
had  often  talked,  Frederick  Cleveland.  I  said  he  had 
often  spoken  of  him;  and  to  my  romantic  ear  his 
name  implied  all  those  graces  and  accomplishments  I 
had  never  yet  seen  embodied.  Grave  even  to  pensive- 
ness;  pale  almost  to  feminine  delicacy;  yet  with  a 
deep-toned  voice  and  manly  figure,  he  formed  a  stri- 
king contrast  to  my  merry,  blooming,  and  boyish  bro- 
ther. Arthur  pursued  his  accustomed  sports,  fishing 
and  hunting;  Cleveland  soon  learned  to  linger  behind, 
finding  more  congeniality  in  my  enthusiasm  and  poetry 
of  feeling.  He  was  a  poet  himself;  and  he  loved  to 
read  his  own  strains  to  one  who  listened  with  an  ear 
so  rapt  as  mine.  He  was  a  naturalist;  and  as  we 
"walked  together,  he  explained  to  me  the  wondrous 
laws  of  nature,  and  gave  me  enlarged  and  elevated 
views  of  the  creating  power.  He  was  an  astronomer 
and  as  we  stood  beneath  the  starry  heavens,  he  directed 
my  gaze  to  the  planets  walking  in  their  brightness,  and 
endeavored  to  carry  my  soul  into  the  depths  of  infinity, 
and  teach  it  to  take  in  some  faint  glimpses  of  God's 
unimaginable  glory.  Fanny,  I  thought  not  of  my  God, 
29 


'!CJ6  COUKT.SIIIl'    ANU    ilAHKJAUK;     UK,    THE 

bat  of  him.  I  forgot  the  Creator  in  adoration  of  the 
creature  he  had  made.  He  departed,  and  existence 
was  a  blank  to  me ;  or  rather,  it  was  filled  with  one 
image,  one  ever  multiplying,  yet  never  changing 
image.  My  first  thought  at  morning  was  not  an  aspi- 
ration of  gratitude  to  the  Divine  Being,  whose  wings 
of  love  had  overshadowed  and  sheltered  me  during 
the  darkness  of  night,  but  a  remembrance  of  Cleve- 
land. My  last  thought,  when  I  closed  my  eyes  in 
sleep,  did  not  ascend  to  Him,  in  whose  awful  presence 
I  might  be  ere  the  midnight  hour,  but  lingered  round 
one,  a  frail  creature  of  the  dust  like  myself.  You 
asked  me.,  Fanny,  if  love  was  sinful.  Not  that  love 
•which,  emanating  from  a  heart  which,  conscious  of  its 
weakness  and  its  dependence  on  God,  sees  in  the 
object  of  its  affections,  a  being  of  clay,  yet  an  heir  of 
immortality ;  a  traveller  of  time,  whose  goal  is  eter- 
nity ;  not  that  love  which,  purified  from  earthly  fires, 
glows  with  a  divine  ardor,  and  mingles  with  the  celes- 
tial flame  that  rises  from  the  soul  to  the  source  of  ever- 
lasting love  and  light.  But  the  pagan  maiden,  who 
pours  out  her  life-blood  at  the  feet  of  her  idol-god,  is 
not  more  of  an  idolater  than  I  was,  the  baptized 
daughter  of  a  Christian  mother. 

"Winter  glided  slowly  away.  My  grandmother's 
sight  entirely  failed,  and  I  was  compelled  to  become 
eyes  to  the  blind,  and  also  feet  to  the  weary,  for  her 
increasing  infirmities  confined  her  to  her  arm-chair.  I 
performed  these  duties,  but  with  a  listless  spirit ;  and, 
could  she  have  looked  upon  me,  she  must  have  known 
that  my  thoughts  were  wandering.  At  length  spring 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  467 

returned,  and  she  had  her  arm-chair  moved  into  the 
open  air,  and  as  the  fragrance  of  the  season  floated 
round  her,  and  its  melodies  breathed  into  her  ear,  she 
revived  into  child-like  cheerfulness.  The  time  for  my 
brother's  annual  visit  returned,  and  Cleveland  once 
more  accompanied  him.  Even  now,  when  years  glid 
ing  over  years  have  dimmed  the  memories  of  the  past, 
and  religion,  I  trust,  has  sanctified  them,  I  cannot  recall 
those  hours  without  a  glow  like  that  of  sunshine,  per- 
vading my  wasted  being.  But  the  gloom,  the  horror 
of  thick  darkness  that  followed  !  One  day,  as  Cleve- 
land and  myself  were  sitting  at  the  foot  of  an  elm 
tree,  reading  from  the  same  book,  Arthur  passed  us 
with  his  gun  in  his  hand,  his  green  hunting  pouch 
swung  over  his  shoulder,  and  his  dog  bounding  before 
him.  He  laughed,  looked  back,  called  Cleveland  a 
drone,  then  went  gaily  on.  How  long  he  was  gone  I 
know  not,  for  the  happy  take  no  note  of  hours ;  but  the 
sun  was  nearly  setting,  when  he  returned  by  the  same 
path.  I  felt  a  sensation  of  embarrassment  that  I  had 
lingered  so  long,  and,  looking  at  Cleveland,  I  saw  the 
color  on  his  cheek  was  deepened.  The  sky  was  red- 
dening with  the  clouds  that  generally  gather  around 
the  setting  sun,  and  their  reflection  gave  a  beauty  and 
brightness  to  his  face  that  I  had  never  seen  before. 
Arthur  seemed  animated  with  more  than  his  usual 
vivacity.  'Cleveland,'  said  he,  with  mock  gravity, 
1  that  blush  bespeaks  the  consciousness  of  guilt.  I 
have  long  thought  you  a  criminal,  and  you  must  now 
suffer  the  penalty  due  to  your  crimes.  Die,  then,  base 
robber,  without  judge  or  jury.'  Then,  aiming  his 


468  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

gun  like  an  experienced  marksmen,  his  eye  sparkling 
with  mirth,  he  shot — and  Cleveland  fell." 

Here  Aunt  Mercy  paused,  and  a  long  silence  ensued. 
I  dared  not  look  at  her,  as  she  thus  bared  the  fountain 
of  her  grief.  I  felt  as  if  the  death  shot  had  penetrated 
my  own  heart.  I  started  at  the  sound  of  her  voice 
when  she  again  resumed  her  narrative,  it  was  so  hollow 
and  broken. 

"  Yes !  he  fell  by  a  brother's  hand.  I  saw  him  ex- 
tended at  my  feet,  and  the  grass  crimsoned  with  the 
blood  that  gushed  from  the  wound.  I  saw  Arthur 
dash  down  his  gun,  rush  forward,  and  throwing  himself 
on  the  bleeding  body,  exclaim,  "  Gracious  Father !  what 
have  I  done  ?"  "  Done !"  cried  I,  pushing  him  away 
with  frantic  violence,  and  clasping  the  murdered 
Frederick  in  my  arms,  "Done!  you  have  killed  him — 
you  have  killed  him ;"  and  I  reiterated  the  words  till 
they  became  a  piercing  shriek,  and  the  air  was  rent  with 
my  cries  of  agony.  I  remember  how  he  looked— with 
what  bloodless  cheeks  and  lips  he  bent  over  him — 
what  indescribable  anguish  and  horror  spoke  from  his 
eyes !  I  remember,  too,  how  my  blind  old  grandmother, 
roused  by  my  shrieks, — came  groping  to  the  spot,  and 
dabbled  her  hands  unconsciously  in  the  blood  of  the 
victim.  Tt  was  she  who  cried,  "  he  may  yet  be  saved ;" 
and  Arthur  flew  for  a  physician,  and  dragged  him  to 
the  very  tree,  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  while  he 
sought  the  symptoms  of  that  life  which  was  gone  for 
ever.  My  Fanny,  I  dare  not  describe  the  madness  of 
despair  that  took  possession  of  my  soul.  I  rejected 
all  human  consolation;  I  sought  no  divine  comforter; 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  469 

I  knew  not  that  there  was  a  balm  in  Gilead,  or  a  hea- 
venly Physician  near.  My  poor  grandmother  tried 
to  soothe  my  grief,  but  I  turned  away  from  her  in 
bitterness.  My  brother  attempted  to  approach  me,  but 
I  fled  from  him  as  from  a  monster,  and  hid  myself 
from  his  sight.  He  wrote  to  me,  entreating  me  to  forgive 
him.  He  painted  the  misery  he  endured,  the  remorse 
that  was  consuming  him  ;  and  yet  he  was  innocent,  inno- 
cent of  everything  but  levity,  whose  excess  is  criminal. 
He  knew  not,  that  the  gun  was  loaded ;  for  a  boy, 
who  was  hunting  like  himself,  had  taken  his  rifle,  which 
he  had  left  for  a  few  moments  leaning  against  a  tree, 
and  substituted  his  own  in  its  stead.  It  was  an  instru- 
ment of  inferior  value,  though  of  similar  appearance, 
and  contained  a  heavy  load.  These  circumstances 
•were  afterwards  made  known  to  him,  and  explained 
the  mystery  of  Cleveland's  death.  Poor,  unhappy 
Arthur !  he  was  innocent,  and  yet  I  loathed  him.  I 
made  a  vow  that  I  would  never  see  him  more.  "  Tell 
him,"  said  I,  "  that  I  forgive  him,  but  I  can  never  live 
in  his  sight ;  I  can  never  look  upon  him  but  as  the 
destroyer  of  all  I  held  dear."  Finding  me  inexorable, 
he  left  me  to  my  sullen  and  resentful  sorrow,  to  seek 
friends  more  kind  and  pitying.  My  sole  occupation, 
now,  was  to  wander  abroad,  and  seat  myself  under  the 
elm  tree  which  had  witnessed  the  awful  tragedy,  and 
brood  over  its  remembrance.  Oh!  how  hard  and 
selfish  must  have  been  my  heart,  that  could  have  re- 
sisted the  prayers  and  tears  of  my  only  brother ;  that 
could  have  turned  from  a  doting  grandmother,  whose 
sightless  eyes  pleaded  so  painfully  in  his  behalf;  that 


470  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

could  have  left  her  to  the  care  of  menials,  instead  of 
ministering  to  her  declining  age  and  smoothing  her 
passage  to  the  grave !  But  that  hard  heart  was  yet  to 
be  broken.  The  prophet's  wand  was  near.  I  received 
a  summons  to  come  to  my  brother,  who  was  dying. 
He  raved  for  his  sister ;  he  could  not  die  without  see- 
ing her  once  again.  I  felt  like  one  waking  from  a  ter- 
rible dream,  in  which  the  incubus  had  been  brooding 
like  a  demon  on  the  soul!  A  voice  cried  in  my  ear, 
"Thou  too  wilt  be  a  murderer,  less  innocent  than  he, 
for  thou  knewest  what  thou  wast  doing."  I  obeyed 
the  summons,  but  it  was  too  late — he  was  dead !  I 
saw  him  in  his  winding-sheet — the  brother  whom  my 
unrelenting  lips  had  vowed  never  to  behold  again; 
with  his  last  breath  he  had  called  on  my  name,  and 
prayed  me  to  forgive  him  1  I  stood  and  gazed  upon 
him  with  dry  and  burning  eyes.  The  merry  glance 
was  dim  and  fixed ;  the  glowing  cheeks  sunken  and 
white;  and  tho  smiling  lips  closed  for  ever.  I  had 
hung  over  the  corpse  of  my  lover,  my  bosom  had  been 
moistened  by  the  life  drops  that  oozed  from  his  own, 
and  I  thought  I  had  drunk  the  cup  of  sorrow  to  its 
bitterest  dregs.  'But  I  now  learned  that  there  were 
dregs  more  bitter  still.  Oh  !  the  anguish  of  remorse ; 
surely  it  is  a  foretaste  of  the  undying  worm,  of  the 
fire  that  never  can  be  quenched;  I  could  not  bear  its 
gnawings — its  smothered,  consuming  flames;  I  was 
laid  for  months  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  in  the*  same 
chamber  where  my  poor  Arthur  breathed  his  last.  I 
thought  I  was  dying.  I  did  not  wish  to  live,  but  I 
recoiled  from  the  dark  futurity  which  stretched  illimi- 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.  471 

tably  before  me ;  I  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  a  holy  and 
avenging  God;  I,  the  unforgiving,  could  I  hope  for 
forgiveness?  I  heard,  as  it  were,  the  voice  of.  the 
Lord  saying,  "  The  voice  of  thy  brother's  blood  cries 
to  me  from  the  ground ;"  and  I  looked  in  vain  for  a 
city  of  shelter,  where  my  soul  could  fly  and  live.  I 
revealed  to  no  one  what  was  passing  within.  In  the 
sullen  secresy  of  despair,  I  resolved  to  meet  the  doom 
which  I  believed  to  be  irrevocable.  Like  the  Spartan 
boy,  who  sat  unmoved  while  the  hidden  animal  was 
preying  on  his  vitals,  glorying  in  the  pangs  he  had 
the  fortitude  to  endure,  I  lay  on  my  bed  of  torture 
silent  and  unmurmuring:  feeling  that  the  agonies  I 
suffered,  and  which  I  expected  to  suffer,  as  long  as 
Almighty  vengeance  could  inflict  them,  or  the  immor- 
tal spirit  bear,  were  a  sufficient  expiation  for  my 
cruelty  and  guilt.  I  shudder,  as  I  recall  the  workings 
of  my  soul ;  I  looked  upon  myself  as  the  victim  of 
an  uncontrollable  destiny,  of  an  omnipotent  vindictive 
Being,  who,  secure  in  his  own  impassibility,  beheld 
with  unpitying  eye  the  anguish  he  caused.  Had  I 
created  myself?  Had  I  asked  for  the  gift  of  existence  ? 
"Was  mine  the  breath  which  had  warmed  the  senseless 
dust  of  the  valley  with  passions  so  fiery  and  untame- 
able  ;  or  mine  the  power  to  restrain  their  devastating 
course?  As  well  might  I  be  responsible  for  the  ruin 
caused  by  elemental  wrath.  Oh !  Fanny,  had  I  died 
in  this  awful  frame !  Had  my  rebellious  spirit  then 
been  ushered  into  the  presence  chamber  of  the  King 
of  kings,  thus  blasphemous  and  defying !  But  he  who 
remembers  we  are  dust,  who,  tempted  once  himself, 


472  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;     OR,   THE 

has  pity  on  human  weakness,  gently  withdrew  his 
chastening  hand.  lie  raised  me  from  my  sick  bed, 
and  bid  me  live.  I  returned  to  iny  grandmother,  who 
was  now  helpless  as  a  child,  and  who  wept  like  an 
infant  when  she  heard  my  voice  once  more.  The 
Bible,  the  only  book  in  her  library  which  I  formerly 
passed  over  as  too  uninteresting  to  read,  was  now 
taken  from  the  shelf  and  laid  on  the  table  by  her  bed- 
side ;  on  my  knees  I  read  its  sacred  pages.  With  no 
teacher  but  the  Holy  Spirit,  I  prosecuted  the  sublimest 
study  in  the  universe,  and  as  I  studied,  I  felt  a  holy 
illumination  pervading  the  darkened,  recesses  of  my 
soul.  I  saw  myself  in  the  mirror  of  eternal  truth,  in 
all  my  pride,  rebellion,  ingratitude,  and  heaven-daring 
hardiness — and  I  loathed  the  picture.  The  more  I 
abhorred  myself,  the  more  I  adored  the  transcendent 
mercy  of  God,  in  prolonging  my  life  for  repentance 
and  reformation.  Like  Mary,  I  arose  and  prostrated 
myself  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour,  bathed  them  with 
such  tears  of  sorrow  and  love,  it  seemed  as  if  my 
heart  were  melting  in  the  fountain.  I  loved  much;  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  forgiven;  and  ten  thousand  times  ten 
thousand  worlds  would  not  purchase  the  hope  even  of 
that  blessed  forgiveness.  My  aged  grandmother,  too, 
placed  as  she  was  on  the  confines  of  two  worlds,  ac- 
knowledged that  it  had  been  reserved  for  that  moment 
for  the  power  and  glory  of  religion  to  be  manifested 
in  her  soul.  She  had  hitherto  rested  in  quietude,  in 
the  consciousness  of  a  blameless  life;  but,  about  to 
appear  in  the  presence  of  infinite  purity  as  well  as  jus- 
tice, the  life,  which  had  seemed  so  spotless,  assumed  a 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS    OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  473 

dark  and  polluted  aspect,  and  she  felt  that  if  she  ever 
joined  the  white-robed  throng  which  surround  the 
throne  of  the  Everlasting,  with  branching  palms  in 
their  hands,  and  hymns  of  glory  on  their  lips,  her 
raiments,  like  theirs,  must  be  washed  whits  in  tho 
blood  of  the  Lamb.  She  died  in  peace,  in  hope,  in 
faith,  bequeathing  me  her  little  fortune,  and,  what  was 
more  precious  still,  her  blessing.  Blessed,  for  ever 
blessed,  be  the  God  of  Israel,  that  I  have  been  so 
gently  led  down  the  declivity  of  life,  and  that  I  can 
hear  without  dismay  the  rolling  of  the  waves  of  Jor- 
dan, over  which  my  aged  feet  must  shortly  pass  ;  and, 
blessed  too  be  his  holy  name,  that  he  has  brought  you 
hither  to  minister  to  my  infirmities,  listen  to  my  feeble 
counsels,  and  close  my  dying  eyes." 

Aunt  Mercy  rose,  laid  her  hand  for  a  moment 
solemnly  on  my  head,  and  retired.  I  had  wept  with- 
out ceasing,  during  the  latter  part  of  her  narrative,  and 
long  after  I  had  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow,  I  continued 
to  weep.  I  wept  for  the  ill-fated  Cleveland  ;  the  un- 
happy Arthur;  for  Aunt  Mercy,  unrelenting  and 
despairing,  then,  sorrowing  and  repenting ;  I  wept  to 
think  what  a  world  of  tribulation  I  had  entered,  and 
prayed  that  I  might  never  know  the  strength  and 
tyranny  of  human  passion.  I  had  always  thought  it  a 
fearful  thing  to  die ;  but  now  it  seemed  more  fearful 
still  to  live  in  a  world  so  full  of  temptation,  with  hearts 
so  prone  to  yield,  surrounded  by  the  shadows  of  time, 
which  seem  to  us  realities,  and  travelling  on  to  an 
invisible  world,  which  seems  so  shadowy  and  remote. 
The  mystery  of  my  being  oppressed  me,  and  I  sought 


474:  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;     OR,   THE 

to  fathom  what  is  unfathomable,  till  I  remembered  the 
sublime  interrogation  of  Scripture,  "  Who  can  find  out 
the  Almighty  unto  perfection?  He  is  higher  than 
heaven — what  canst  thou  do  ?  Deeper  than  hell — 
what  canst  thou  know  ?"  I  acknowledged  my  pre- 
sumption, and,  humbled  and  submissive,  felt  willing  to 
wait  the  great  and  final  day  of  God's  revealing. 

The  next  morning,  Aunt  Mercy  requested  me  to 
accompany  her  in  a  walk.  It  was  a  mild,  sunny  morn- 
ing, and  the  breath  of  spring,  floating  over  the  hills, 
was  beginning  to  melt  the  frosts  of  winter.  I  thought 
she  was  going  on  an  errand  of  charity*  till  she  turned 
into  a  path,  to  which  the  leafless  shrubbery  on  either 
side  now  gave  a  dreary  appearance,  and  led  me  to  a 
tree,  whose  bare  spreading  branches  bent  over  a  rustic 
bench,  that  was  seen  at  its  roots.  I  trembled,  as  I 
approached  the  spot,  for  I  knew  it  was  there  the  blood 
of  Cleveland  had  been  spilled.  "  This,  then,"  thought 
I,  "  is  the  very  tree  that  witnessed,  almost  simultane- 
ously, the  vows  of  love  and  the  tears  of  agony." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Mercy,  as  if  I  had  spoken  aloud, 
"  this  is  the  spot  where,  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  in 
the  flower  of  youth,  he  fell !  His  body  sleeps  in  the 
cemetery  of  his  fathers,  but  this  is  his  monument. 
Long  as  this  aged  tree  remains,  it  will  be  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  Cleveland.  Like  that  tree,  now  withered 
and  shorn  of  its  summer  glories,  I  too  stand  a  memento 
of  his  fate ;  but  the  spring  will  come  to  reclothe  thoso 
naked  branches,  and  pour  the  stream  of  vegetable  life 
in  their  veins ;  and  I  too  await  the  coming  of  that 
spring-time,  whose  flowers  and  verdue  no  after  winter 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS    OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.  475 

can  blight."  As  I  looked  around  me,  the  conviction 
that  all  that  I  saw  was  associated  with  Aunt  Mercy's 
youth;  that  here  her  aged  grandmother  had  lived, 
and  she  herself  grown  old ;  that  here  too  I  might  grow 
old  and  die,  was  very  solemn.  Aunt  Mercy,  who 
always  seemed  to  read  my  thoughts,  explained  to  me 
all  the  changes  which  had  gradually  taken  place.  The 
inroads  of  time  had  been  constantly  repaired,  so  that 
it  was  the  same  cottage  in  appearance  that  had 
sheltered  her  in  childhood.  She  had  respected  her 
grandmother's  peculiar  habits,  and  continued  them, 
perhaps,  in  many  respects  unconsciously.  The  white 
livery  which  at  first  startled  me  from  its  singularity/ 
but  to  which  my  eye  had  become  accustomed,  had 
been  adopted  by  her  predecessor ;  when  her  failing 
sight  found  it  difficult  to  distinguish  objects,  and  every 
thing  darkened  round  her.  "  And  I  love  to  look  upon 
white,"  continued  Aunt  Mercy ;  "I  love  the  winter's 
snow  for  its  whiteness.  It  reminds  me  of  the  blood- 
washed  robes  of  the  saints." 

I  would  have  lingered  near  the  spot  hallowed  by 
such  deathless  memories,  but  Aunt  Mercy  drew  me 
away.  I  trembled  for  the  effect  of  such  excitement 
on  one  so  aged.  I  thought  her  face  looked  paler  than 
usual,  and  her  step  seemed  less  firm.  I  placed  the 
easy  chair  for  her  on  our  return,  and  stood  by  her 
with  an  anxious  countenance.  "Fanny,  my  love," 
said  she,  pressing  my  hand  in  both  hers,  "  I  have  laid 
bare  my  heart  before  you,  but  the  curtain  must  now 
fall  over  it — never  again  to  be  lifted.  I  have  done 


476         COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE 

with  the  past — God  and  eternity  must  now  claim  all 
my  thoughts !" 

Perhaps  at  some  future  hour,  I  may  continue  my 
own  history,  as  it  is  connected  with  my  sister  Laura's 
and  the  close  of  Aunt  Mercy's  life — a  life  continued 
beyond  the  allotted  period  of  existence. 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS  OP  AMERICAN   LIFE.        477 


f  aster's  ». 


WHAT  impels  me  to  take  up  my  pen,  compose  my- 
self to  the  act  of  writing,  and  begin  the  record  of 
feelings  and  events  which  will  inevitably  throw  a 
shadow  over  the  character  which  too  partial  and 
misjudging  affection  once  beheld  shining  with  re- 
flected lustre?  I  know  not  —  but  it  seems  to  me,  as 
if  a  divine  voice  whispered  from  the  boughs  that  wave 
by  my  window,  occasionally  intercepting  the  sun's 
rays  that  now  foil  obliquely  on  my  paper,  saying  that 
if  I  live  for  memory,  I  must  not  live  in  vain  —  and 
that,  perchance,  when  I,  too,  lie  beneath  the  willow 
that  hangs  over  his  grave,  unconscious  of  its  melan- 
choly waving,  a  deep  moral  may  be  found  in  these 
pages,  short  and  simple  as  they  may  be.  Then  be  it 
so.  It  is  humiliating  to  dwell  on  past  errors  —  but  I 
should  rather  welcome  the  humiliation,  if  it  can  be 
any  expiation  for  my  blindness,  my  folly  —  no!  such 
expressions  are  too  weak  —  I  should  say,  my  madness, 
my  sin,  my  hard-hearted  guilt. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwelUon  my  juvenile  years. 
Though  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  an  uncle,  who 
had  a  large  family  of  his  own  to  support,  every  wish 
which  vanity  could  suggest,  was  indulged  as  soon  as 
expressed.  I  never  knew  a  kinder,  more  hospitable, 
uncalculating  being  than  my  uncle.  If  his  unsparing 
generosity  had  not  experienced  a  counteracting  influ- 
ence in  the  vigilant  economy  of  my  aunt,  he  would 


473  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

long  since  have  been  a  bankrupt.  She  was  never 
unkind  to  me;  for  I  believe  she  was  conscientious, 
and  she  had  loved  my  mother  tenderly.  I  was  the 
orphan  legacy  of  that  mother,  and  consequently  a 
sacred  trust.  I  was  fed  and  clothed  like  my  wealthier 
cousins ;  educated  at  the  same  schools ;  ushered  into 
the  same  fashionable  society,  where  I  learned  that 
awkwardness  was  considered  the  only  unpardonable 
offence,  and  that  almost  any  thing  might  be  said  and 
done,  provided  it  was  said  and  done  gracefully.  From 
the  time  of  our  first  introduction  into  what  is  called 
the  world,  I  gradually  lost  ground  in  the  affections  of 
my  aunt,  for  I  unfortunately  eclipsed  my  elder  cousins 
in  those  outer  gifts  of  nature  and  those  acquired  graces 
of  manner,  which,  however  valueless  when  unaccom- 
panied by  inward  worth,  have  always  exercised  a  pre- 
vailing, an  irresistible  influence  in  society.  I  never 
exactly  knew  why,  but  I  was  the  favourite  of  my 
uncle,  who  seemed  to  love  me  better  than  even  his 
own  daughters,  and  he  rejoiced  at  the  admiration  I 
excited,  though  often  purchased  at  their  expense. 
Perhaps  the  secret  was  this.  They  were  of*a  cold 
temperament ;  mine  was  ardent,  and  whatever  I  loved, 
I  loved  without  reserve,  and  expressed  my  affection 
with  characteristic  warmth  and  enthusiasm.  I  loved 
my  indulgent  uncle  with  all  the  fervour  of  which  such 
a  nature,  made  vain  and  selfish  by  education,  is  capa- 
ble. Often,  after  returning  from  an  evening  party, 
my  heart  throbbing  high  with  the  delight  of  gratified 
vanity,  when  he  would  draw  me  toward  shim  and  tell 
me — with  a  most  injudicious  fondness,  it  is  true — that 


JOYS  AXD   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        479 

I  was  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  the  flowers  I  wore, 
more  sparkling  than  the  jewels,  and  that  I  ought  to 
marry  a  prince  or  a  nabob,  I  exulted  more  in  his 
praise  than  in  the  flatteries  that  were  still  tingling  in 
my  ears.  Even  rny  aunt's  coolness  was  a  grateful 
tribute  to  my  self-love — for  was  it  not  occasioned  by 
my  transcendency  over  her  less  gifted  daughters? 

But  why  do  I  linger  on  the  threshold  of  events, 
which,  simple  in  themselves,  stamped  my  destiny — for 
time,  yea,  and  for  eternity  ? 

It  was  during  a  homeward  journey,  with  rny  uncle, 
I  first  met  him  who  afterwards  became  my  husband. 
My  whole  head  becomes  sick  and  my  whole  heart 
faint,  as  I  think  what  I  might  have  been,  and  what  I 
am.  But  I  must  forbear.  If  I  am  compelled  at  times 
to  lay  aside  my  pen,  overcome  with  agony  and  re- 
morse, let  me  pause  till  I  can  go  on,  with  a  steady 
hand,  and  a  calmer  brain. 

Our  carriage  broke  down — it  was  a  common  acci- 
dent— a  young  gentleman  on  horseback,  who  seemed 
like  ourselves,  a  traveller,  came  up  to  our  assistance. 
He  dismounted,  proffered  every  assistance  in  his 
power,  and  accompanied  us  to  the  inn,  which  for- 
tunately was  not  far  distant,  for  my  uncle  was  severely 
injured,  and  walked  with  difficulty,  though  supported 
by  the  stranger's  arm  and  my  own.  I  cannot  define 
the  feeling,  but  from  the  moment  I  beheld  him,  my 
spirit  was  troubled  within  me.  I  saw,  at  once,  that 
he  was  of  a  different  order  of  beings  from  those  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  associate  with ;  and  there  was 
something  in  the  heavenly  composure  of  his  counte- 


430  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

nance  and  gentle  dignity  of  manner,  that  rebuked  my 
restless  desire  for  admiration  and  love  of  display.  I 
never  heard  any  earthly  sound  so  sweet  as  his  voice. 
Invisible  communion  with  angels  could  alone  give 
such  tones  to  the  human  voice.  At  first,  I  felt  a 
strange  awe  in  his  presence,  and  forgot  those  artificial 
graces,  for  which  I  had  been  too  much  admired. 
Without  meaning  to  play  the  part  of  a  hypocrite,  my 
real  disposition  was  completely  concealed.  During 
the  three  days  we  were  detained,  he  remained  with 
us;  and  aloof  from  all  temptation  to  folly,  the  best 
traits  of  my  character  were  called  into  exercise.  On 
the  morning  of  our  departure,  as  my  uncle  was  ex- 
pressing his  gratitude  for  his  kindness,  and  his  hope 
of  meeting  him  in  town,  he  answered — and  it  was  not 
without  emotion — "I  fear  our  paths  diverge  too  much, 
to  allow  that  hope.  Mine  is  a  lowly  one,  but  I  trust 
I  shall  find  it  blest."  I  then,  for  the  first  time,  learned 
that  he  was  a  minister — the  humble  pastor  of  a  country 
village.  My  heart  died  within  me.  That  this  grace- 
ful and  uncommonly  interesting  young  man  should 
be  nothing  more  than  an  obscure  village  preacher — it 
was  too  mortifying.  All  my  bright  visions  of  con- 
quest faded  away.  "  We  can  never  be  any  thing  to 
each  other,"  thought  I.  Yet  as  I  again  turned  to- 
wards him,  and  saw  his  usually  calm  eye  fixed  on  rne 
with  an  expression  of  deep  anxiety,  I  felt  the  con- 
viction that  I  might  be  all  the  world  to  him.  He  was 
watching  the  effect  of  his  communication,  and  the 
glow  of  excited  vanity  that  suffused  my  cheek  wn.s 
supposed  to  have  its  origin  from  a  purer  source,  t 


JOYS   AXD  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        481 

was  determined  to  enjoy  the  full  glory  of  my  con- 
quest. When  my  uncle  warmly  urged  him  to  accom- 
pany us  home,  and  sojourn  with  us  a  few  days,  I 
backed  the  invitation,  with  all  the  eloquence  my 
countenance  was  capable  of  expressing.  Vain  and 
selfish  being  that  I  was — I  might  have  known  that 
we  differed  from  each  other  as  much  as  the  rays  of  the 
morning  star  from  the  artificial  glare  of  the  sky 
rocket.  He  drew  his  light  from  the  fountain  of  living 
glory,  /from  the  decaying  fires  of  earth. 

The  invitation  was  accepted — and  before  that  short 
visit  was  concluded,  so  great  was  the  influence  ho 
acquired  over  me,  while  /  was  only  seeking  to  gain 
the  ascendency  over  his  affections,  that  I  felt  willing 
to  give  up  the  luxury  and  fashion  that  surrounded 
me,  for  the  sweet  and  quiet  hermitage  he  described, 
provided  the  sacrifice  were  required.  I  never  once 
thought  of  the  duties  that  would  devolve  upon  me, 
the  solemn  responsibilities  of  my  new  situation.  It 
is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  Providence,  how  such  a 
being  as  myself  could  ever  have  won  a  heart  like  his. 
He  saw  the  sunbeam  playing  on  the  surface,  and 
thought  that  all  was  fair  beneath,  i  did  love  him ; 
but  my  love  was  a  passion,  not  a  principle.  I  was 
captivated  by  the  heavenly  graces  of  his  manner,  but 
was  incapable  of  comprehending  the  source  whence 
those  graces  were  derived. 

My  uncle  would  gladly  have  seen  me  established 

in  a   style  more  congenial    to  my  prevailing  tastes, 

but  gave  his  consent,   as  he  said,  on  the  score  of  his 

surpassing  merit.     My  aunt  was  evidently  more  than 

30 


482  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE:   OR,   THE 

willing  to  have  me  married,  while  my  cousins  rallied 
me  for  falling  in  love  with  a  country  parson. 

We  were  married.  I  accompanied  him  to  the  beau- 
tiful village  of .  I  became  mistress  of  the  par- 
sonage. Never  shall  I  forget  the  moment  when  I  first 
entered  this  avenue,  shaded  by  majestic  elms ;  beheld 
these  low,  white  walls,  festooned  with  redolent  vines; 
and  heard  the  voice,  which  was  then  the  music  of  my 
life,  welcome  me  here,  as  Heaven's  best  and  loveliest 
gift.  How  happy — how  blest  I  might  have  been! 
and  I  was  happy  for  awhile.  His  benign  glance  and 
approving  smile  were,  for  a  short  time,  an  equivalent 
for  the  gaze  of  admiration  and  strains  of  flattery  to 
which  I  had  been  accustomed.  I  even  tried,  in  some 
measure,  to  conform  to  his  habits  and  tastes,  and  to 
cultivate  the  good-will  of  the  plebeians  and  rustics 
who  constituted  a  great  portion  of  his  parish.  But 
the  mind,  unsupported  by  principle,  is  incapable  of 
any  steady  exertion.  Mine  gradually  wearied  of  the 
effort  of  assuming  virtues,  to  which  it  had  no  legiti- 
mate claim.  The  fervour  of  feeling  which  had  given 
a  bluer  tint  to  the  sky,  and  a  fairer  hue  to  the  flower, 
insensibly  faded.  I  began  to  perceive  defects  in  every 
object,  and  to  wonder  at  the  blindness  which  formerly 
overlooked  them.  I  still  loved  my  husband ;  but  the 
longer  I  lived  with  him,  the  more  his  character  soared 
above  the  reach  of  mine.  I  could  not  comprehend 
how  one  could  be  endowed  with  such  brilliant  talents 
and  winning  graces,  and  not  wish  for  the  admiration 
of  the  world.  I  was  vexed  with  lain  for  his  meek- 
ness and  humility,  and  would  gladly  have  mingled, 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        483 

if  I  couM,  the  base  alloy  of  earthly  ambition  with 
his  holy  aspirations  after  heaven.  I  was  even  jealous 
— I  almost  tremble  while  I  write  it — of  the  God  he 
worshipped.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought,  that  I 
held  a  second  place  in  his  affections — though  second 
only  to  the  great  and  glorious  Creator.  Continually 
called  from  rny  side  to  the  chamber  of  the  sick,  the 
couch  of  the  dying,  the  dwelling  of  the  poor  and 
ignorant,  I  in  vain  sought  to  fill  up  the  widening  va- 
cuum left,  by  becoming  interested  in  the  duties  of 
my  station.  I  could  not  do  it.  They  became  every 
day  more  irksome  to  me.  The  discontent  I  was  che- 
rishing, became  more  and  more  visible,  till  the  mild 
and  anxious  eye  of  my  husband  vainly  looked  for  the 
joyous  smile  that  used  to  welcome  his  return. 

It  is  true,  there  were  many  things  I  was  obliged  to 
tolerate,  which  must  inevitably  be  distasteful  to  one 
educated  with  such  false  refinement  as  I  have  been. 
But  I  never  reflected  they  must  be  as  opposed  to  my 
husband's  tastes  as  my  own,  and  that  Christian  prin- 
ciple alone  led  him  to  the  endurance  of  them.  Instead 
of  appreciating  his  angelic  patience  and  forbearance, 
I  blamed  him  for  not  lavishing  more  sympathy  on  me 
for  trials  which,  though  sometimes  ludicrous  in  them- 
selves, are  painful  from  the  strength  of  association. 

The  former  minister  of  the  village  left  a  maiden 
sister  as  a  kind  of  legacy  to  his  congregatipn.  My 
husband  had  been  a  protege  and  pupil  of  the  good 
man,  who,  on  his  death-bed,  bequeathed  his  people 
to  the  charge  of  this  son  of  his  adoption,  and  him, 
with  equal  tenderness  and  solemnity,  to  the  care  of 


484:  COURTSHIP   AX1>   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

his  venerable  sister.  She  became  a  fixture  in  the  par- 
sonage, and  to  me  a  perpetual  and  increasing  torment. 
The  first  month  of  our  marriage  she  was  absent,  vis- 
iting some  of  her  seventh  cousins  in  a  neighbouring 
town.  I  do  not  wish  to  exculpate  myself  from  blame; 
but,  if  ever  there  was  a  thorn  in  human  flesh,  I  be 
lieve  I  had  found  it  in  this  inquisitive,  gratuitously 
advising  woman.  I,  who  had  always  lived  among 
roses,  without  thinking  of  briers,  was  doomed  to  feel 
this  thorn,  daily,  hourly,  goading  me;  and  was  con> 
strained  to  conceal  as  much  as  possible  the  irritation 
she  caused,  because  my  husband  treated  her  with  as 
much  respect,  as  if  she  were  an  empress.  I  thought 

Mr.  L was  wrong  in  this.     Owing  to  the  deep 

placidity  of  his  own  disposition,  he  could  not  realize 
what  a  trial,  such  a  companion  was  to  a  mercurial, 
indulged,  self-willed  being  as  myself.  Nature  has 
gifted  me  with  an  exquisite  ear  for  music,  and  a  dis- 
cord always  "  wakes  the  nerve  where  agony  is  born." 
Poor  Aunt  Debby  had  a  perfect  mania  for  singing, 
and  she  would  sit  and  sing  for  hours  together,  old- 
fashioned  ballads  and  hymns  of  surprising  length — 
scarcely  pausing  to  take  breath.  I  have  heard  aged 
people  sing  the  songs  of  Zion,  when  there  was  most 
touching  melody  in  their  tones;  and  some  of  the 
warmest  feelings  of  devotion  I  ever  experienced,  were 
awakened  by  these  solemn,  trembling  notes.  But 
Aunt  Debby's  voice  was  full  of  indescribable  ramifi- 
cations, each  a  separate  discord — a  sharp,  sour  voice, 
indicative  of  the  natural  temper  of  the  owner.  One 
Sunday  morning,  after  she  had  been  screeching  one 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.         485 

of  Dr.  Watts'  hymns,  of  about  a  hundred  verses,  she 
left  me  to  prepare  for  church.  When  we  met,  after 
finishing  our  separate  toilettes,  she  began  her  animad- 
versions  on  my  dress,  as  being  too  gay  for  a  minister's 
wife.  I  denied  the  charge;  for  though  made  in  the 
redundance  of  fashion,  it  was  of  unadorned  white. 

"But  what,"  said  she,  disfiguring  the  muslin  folds 
with  her  awkward  fingers,  "what  is  the  use  of  all 
these  fandangles  of  lace?  They  are  nothing  but 
Satan's  devices  to  lead  astray  silly  women,  whose 
minds  are  running  after  finery."  All  this  I  might 
have  borne  with  silent  contempt,  for  it  came  from 
Aunt  Debby;  but  when  she  brought  the  authority  of 
a  Mrs.  Deacon  and  a  Mrs.  Doelan  of  the  parish,  to  prove 
that  she  was  not  the  only  one  who  found  fault  with 
the  fashion  of  my  attire,  the  indignant  spirit  broke 
its  bounds;  deference  for  age  was  forgotten  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  and  the  concentrated  irrita- 
tion of  weeks  burst  forth.  I  called  her  an  imper- 
tinent, morose  old  maid,  and  declared  that  one  or 
the  other  of  us  should  leave  the  parsonage.  In  the 
midst  of  the  paroxysm  my  husband  entered — the 
calm  of  heaven  on  his  brow.  He  had  just  left  his 
closet,  where  he  had  been  to  seek  the  divine  manna 
for  the  pilgrims  it  was  his  task  to  guide  through  the 
wilderness  of  life.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
in.  grief  and  amazement.  Aunt  Debby  had  seated 
herself  on  his  entrance,  and  began  to  rock  herself 
backward  and  forward,  and  to  sigh  and  groan — 
saying  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  be  called  such  hard 
names  at  her  time  of  life,  &c.  I  stood,  my  cheeks 


486  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

glowing  with  anger,  and  my  heart  violently  palpit- 
ating with  the  sudden  effort  at  self-control.  He  ap- 
proached me,  took  my  hand,  and  said,  "My  dear 
Mary!"  There  was  affection  in  his  tone,  but  there 
was  upbraiding,  also;  and  drawing  away  my  hand, 
I  wept  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  As  soon  as  I  could 
summon  sufficient  steadiness  of  voice,  I  told  him  the 
cause  of  my  resentment,  arid  declared,  that  I  would 
never  again  enter  a  place,  where  I  was  exposed  to 
ridicule  and  censure,  and  from  those,  too,  so  immea- 
surably my  inferiors  in  birth  and  education.  "Dearest 
Mary!"  exclaimed  he,  turning  pale  from  agitation, 
"you  cannot  mean  what  you  say.  Let  not  such 
trifles  as  these,  mar  the  peace  of  this  holy  day.  I 
grieve  that  your  feelings  should  have  been  wounded; 
but  what  matters  it  what  the  world  says  of^our  out- 
ward apparel,  if  our  souls  are  clothed  with  those 
robes  of  holiness,  which  make  us  lovely  in  our 
Maker's  eyes?  Let  us  go  together  to  the  temple  of 
Him,  whose  last  legacy  to  man  was  peace." 

Though  the  bell  was  ringing  its  last  notes,  and 
though  I  saw  him  so  painfully  disturbed,  I  still  re- 
sisted the  appeal,  and  repeated  my  rash  asseveration. 
The  bell  had  pealed  its  latest  summons,  and  was  no 
longer  heard.  "Mary,  must  I  go  alone?"  His  hand 
was  on  the  latch — there  was  a  burning  flush  on  his 
cheek,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  before.  My  pride 
would  have  yielded — my  conscience  convicted  me  of 
wrong — I  would  have  acknowledged  my  rashness, 
had  not  Aunt  Debby,  whom  I  thought  born  to  be  my 
evil  spirit,  risen  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  and  taken 


JOl'S   AXD   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.         4:87 

his  arm  preparatory  to  accompanying  him.  "No," 
said  I,  "you  will  not  be  alone.  You  need  not  wait 
for  me.  In  Aunt  Debby's  company,  you  cannot  regret 
mine." 

Surely  my  heart  must  have  been  steeled,  like  Pha- 
raoh's, for  some  divine  purpose,  or  I  never  could  have 
resisted  the  mute  anguish  of  his  glance,  as  he  closed  the 
door  on  this  cold  and  unmerited  taunt.  What  hours  of 
wretchedness  I  passed  in  the  solitude  of  my  chamber!  I 
magnified  my  sufferings  into  those  of  martyrdom,  and 

accused  Mr.  L of  not  preparing  me  for  the  trials  of 

my  new  situation.  Yet,  even  while  I  reproached  him  in 
my  heart,  I  was  conscious  of  my  injustice,  and  felt  that 
I  did  not  suffer  alone.  It  was  the  first  time  any  other 
than  words  of  love  and  kindness  had  passed  between 
us,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  that  a  barrier  was  beginning 
to  rise,  that  would  separate  us  forever.  When  we 
again  met,  I  tried  to  retain  the  same  cold  manner  and 
averted  countenance,  but  he  came  unaccompanied  by 
my  tormentor,  and  looked  so  dejected  and  pale,  my 
petulance  and  pride  yielded  to  the  reign  of  better 
feelings.  I  hud  even  the  grace  to  make  concessions, 
which  were  received  with  such  gratitude  and  feeling, 
I  was  melted  into  goodness,  transient  but  sincere. 
Had  Aunt  Debby  remained  from  us,  all  might  yet 
have  been  well;  but  after  having  visited  awhile 
among  the  parish,  she  returned;  and  her  presence 
choked  the  blossoms  of  my  good  resolutions.  I 
thought  she  never  forgave  the  offending  epithet  I 
had  given  her  in  the  moment  of  passion.  It  is  far 
from  my  intention,  in  delineating  peculiarities  like 


48S        COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR.  THE 

hers,  to  throw  any  opprobrium  on  that  class  of  females 
who,  from  their  isolated  and  often  unprotected  situ- 
ation, are  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  shafts  of  un 
kindness  or  ridicule.  I  have  known  those,  whoso 
influence  seemed  as  diffusive  as  the  sunshine  and 
gentle  as  the  dew ;  at  whose  approach  the  ringlets  of 
childhood  would  be  tossed  gaily  back,  and  the  wan 
cheek  of  the  aged  lighted  up  with  joy;  who  had 
devoted  the  glow  of  their  youth,  and  the  strength  of 
their  prime,  to  acts  of  filial  piety  and  love,  watching 
the  waning  fires  of  life,  as  the  vestal  virgins  the  flame 
of  the  altar.  Round  such  beings  as  these  the  beati- 
tudes cluster;  and  yet,  the  ban  of  unfeeling  levity  is 
passed  upon  the  maiden  sisterhood.  But  I  wander 
from  my  path.  It  is  not  her  history  I  am  writing,  so 
much  as  my  own;  which,  however  deficient  in  inci- 
dent, is  not  without  its  moral  power. 

I  experienced  one  source  of  mortification,  which  I 
have  not  yet  mentioned;  it  may  even  seem  too  in- 
significant to  be  noticed,  and  yet  it  was  terribly  grat- 
ing to  my  aristocratic  feelings.  Some  of  our  good 
parishioners  were  in  the  habit  of  lavishing  attentions 
so  repugnant  to  me,  that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  refuse 
them ;  which  I  afterwards  learned  gave  great  morti- 
fication and  displeasure.  I  would  willingly  accept  a 
basket  of  fragrant  strawberries,  or  any  of  the  elegant 
bounties  of  nature;  but  when  they  offered  such 
plebeian  gifts  as  a  shoulder  of  pork  or  mutton,  a  sack 
of  grain  or  potatoes,  /  invariably  returned  rny  cold 
thanks  and  declined  the  honour.  Is  it  strange  that  I 
should  become  to  them  ail  object  of  aversion,  and 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        48U 

that  they  should  draw  comparisons,  humbling  to  me, 
between  their  idolized  minister  and  his  haughty 
bride? 

My  uncle  and  cousins  made  me  a  visit,  not  long 
after  my  rupture  with  Aunt  Debby,  which  only  served 
to  render  me  more  unhappy.  My  uncle  complainea. 
so  much  of  my  altered  appearance,  my  faded  bloom 
and  languid  spirits,  I  saw  that  it  gave  exquisite  pain 

to  Mr.  L ,  while  my  cousins,  now  in  their  day  of 

power,  amused  themselves  continually  with  the  old- 
fashioned  walls  of  the  house,  the  obsolete  style  of  the 
furniture,  and  my  humdrum  mode  of  existence.  Had 
I  possessed  one  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  I  should  have 
resented  all  this  as  an  insult  to  him  whom  I  had 
solemnly  vowed  to  love  and  honour.  These  old- 
fashioned  walls  should  have  been  sacred  in  my  eyes. 
They  were  twice  hallowed — hallowed  by  the  recollec- 
tions of  departed  excellence  and  the  presence  of  living 
holiness.  Every  leaf  of  the  magnificent  elms  that  over- 
shadowed them,  should  have  been  held  sacred,  for 
the  breath  of  morning  and  evening  prayer  had  been 
daily  wafted  over  them,  up  to  the  mercy-seat  of 
heaven. 

I  returned  with  my  uncle  to  the  metropolis.  It  is 
t  rue,  he  protested  that  he  would  not,  could  not  leave 
me  behind — and  that  change  of  scene  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  restoration  of  my  bloom,  and  Mr. 

1, gave  his  assent  with  apparent  cheerfulness  and 

composure.  But  I  knew — I  felt,  that  his  heart  bled 
at  my  willingness,  my  wish  to  be  absent  from  him,  so 
soon  after  our  marriage.  lie  told  me  to  consult  my 


490  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

own  happiness,  in  the  length  of  my  visit,  and  that  he 
would  endeavour  to  find  a  joy  in  solitude,  in  thinking 
of  mine.  "Oh!"  said  one  of  my  cousins,  with  a  loud 
laugh,  "you  can  never  feel  solitary,  where  Aunt  Debby 

is " 

Behold  me  once  more  'mid  the  scenes  congenial  to 
my  soul — a  gay  flower,  sporting  over  the  waves  of 
fashion,  thoughtless  of  the  caverns  of  death  beneath. 
Again  the  voice  of  flattery  fell  meltingly  on  my  ear; 
and  while  listening  to  the  siren,  I  forgot  those  mild, 
admonishing  accents,  which  were  always  breathing  of 
heaven — or  if  I  remembered  them  at  all,  they  came  to 
my  memory  like  the  grave  rebuke  of  Milton's  cherub 
— severe  in  their  beauty.  Yes,  I  did  remember  them 
when  I  was  alone ;  and  there  are  hours  when  the  gay- 
est will  feel  desolately  alone.  I  thought  of  him  in  his 
neglected  home;  him,  from  whom  I  was  gradually 
alienating  myself  for  his  very  perfections,  and  accus- 
ing conscience  avenged  his  rights.  Oh  1  how  miser- 
able, how  poor  we  are,  when  unsupported  by  our  own 
esteem!  when  we  fear  to  commune  with  our  own 
hearts,  and  doubly  tremble  to  bare  them  to  the  all-see- 
ing eye  of  our  Maker!  My  husband  often  wrote  me 
most  affectionately.  He  did  not  urge  my  return,  but 
said,  whenever  I  felt  willing  to  exchange  the  pleasures 
of  the  metropolis  for  the  seclusion  of  the  hermitage, 
his  arms  and  his  heart  were  open  to  receive  me.  At 
length  I  received  a  letter,  which  touched  those  chords 
that  yet  vibrated  to  the  tones  of  nature  and  feeling. 
He  seldom  spoke  of  himself— but  in  this,  he  men- 
tioned having  been  very  ill,  though  then  convalescent. 


JOYS   AXD  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        491 

"Your  presence,  my  Mary,"  said  he,  "would  bring 
healing  on  its  wings.  I  fear,  greatly  fear,  I  have 
doomed  you  to  unhappiness,  by  rashly  yielding  to  the 
influence  of  your  beauty  and  winning  manners,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  your  simplicity  and  inexperience, 
without  reflecting  how  unfitted  you  were,  from  na- 
tural disposition  and  early  habits,  to  be  a  fellow- 
labourer  in  so  humble  a  portion  of  our  Master's  vine- 
yard. Think  not,  my  beloved  wife,  I  say  this  in  re- 
proach. No!  'tis  in  sorrow,  in  repentance,  in  humilia- 
tion of  spirit.  I  have  been  too  selfish.  I  have  not 
shown  sufficient  sympathy  for  the  trials  and  vexations 
to  which,  for  me,  you  have  been  exposed.  I  have 
asked  to  receive  too  much.  I  have  given  back  too 
little.  Keturn  then,  my  Mary ;  you  were  created  for 
nobler  purposes  than  the  beings  who  surround  you. 
Let  us  begin  life  anew.  Let  us  take  each  other  by 
the  hand  as  companions  for  time — but  pilgrims  for 
eternity.  Be  it  mine  to  guard,  guide  and  sustain — 
yours,  to  console,  to  gild  and  comfort."  In  a  postscript 
he  added : 

"  I  am  better  now — a  journey  will  res-tore  me.  I 
will  soon  be  with  you,  when  I  trust  we  will  not  again 
be  parted." 

Mv  heart  was  not  of  rock.  It  was  moved — melted. 
I  should  have  been  less  than  human,  to  have  been  un- 
touched by  a  letter  like  this.  All  my  romantic  love, 
but  so  recently  chilled,  returned  ;  and  I  thought  of 
his  image  as  that  of  an  angel's.  Ever  impulsive,  ever 
actuated  by  the  passion  of  the  moment,  I  made  the 
most  fervent  resolutions  of  amendment,  and  panted 


492  COURTSHIP   ANP   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

for  the  hour  when  we  should  start  for,  together,  this 
immortal  goal  I     Alas!  how  wavering  were  my  pur- 
•  poses — how  ineffective  my  holy  resolutions! 

There  was  a  numerous  congregation  gathered  on 
the  Sabbath  rnorn,  not  in  the  simple  village  church, 
but  the  vaulted  walls  of  a  city  dome.  A  stranger  as- 
cended the  pulpit.  Every  eye  was  turned  on  him 
and  none  wandered.  lie  was  pallid,  as  from  recent 
indisposition;  but  there  was  a  flitting  glow  on  his 
cheek,  the  herald  of  coming  inspiration.  There  was 
a  divine  simplicity,  a  sublime  fervour,  an  abandonment 
of  self,  a  lifting  up  of  the  soul  to  heaven,  an  inde- 
scribable and  spiritual  charm  pervading  his  manner, 
that  was  acknowledged  by  the  breathless  attention  of 
a  crowded  audience,  composed  of  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  metropolis.  And  I  was  there,  the 
proudest,  the  happiest  of  the  throng.  That  gifted 
being  was  my  husband.  I  was  indemnified  for  all 
past  mortifications,  and  looked  forward  to  bright  years 
of  felicity,  not  in  the  narrow  path  we  had  heretofore 
travelled,  but  a  wider,  more  brilliant  sphere.  My 
imagination  placed  him  at  the  head  of  that  admiring 
congregation ;  and  I  saw  the  lowly  flock  he  had  been 
lately  feeding,  weeping,  unpitied,  between  the  porch 
and  the  altar. 

Before  we  bade  farewell  to  my  uncle,  I  had  abund- 
ant reason  to  believe  my  vision  would  soon  be  real- 
ized. The  church  was  then  without  a  pastor.  No 
candidate  had  as  yet  appeared  in  whom  their  opinions 
or  affections  were  united.  They  were  enthusiastic  in 
their  admiration  of  Mr.  L ,  and  protested  agaiust 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        493 

the  obscurity  of  his  location.  With  such  hopes  gild- 
ing the  future,  I  left  the  metropolis  with  a  cheerful- 
ness and  elasticity  of  spirits,  which  my  husband  hailed 
as  a  surety  for  long  years  of  domestic  felicity.  I 
would  gladly  linger  here  awhile.  I  fear  to  go  on. 
You  have  followed  me  so  far  with  a  kind  of  complai- 
sant interest,  as  a  poor,  vain,  weak  young  creature, 
whose  native  defects  have  been  enhanced  by  educa- 
tion, and  who  has  unfortunately  been  placed  in  a 
sphere  she  is  incapable  of  adorning.  The  atmosphere 
is  too  pure,  too  rarified.  Removed  at  once  from  the 
valley  of  sin  to  the  mount  of  holiness,  I  breathe 
with  difficulty  the  celestial  air,  and  pant  for  more  con- 
genial reagions.  Must  I  proceed  ?  Your  compassion 
will  turn  to  detestation  :  yet  I  cannot  withdraw  from 
the  task  I  have  imposed  on  myself.  It  is  an  expia- 
tory one ;  and  oh,  may  it  be  received  as  such  ! 

It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  week  after  our  return. 
All  had  been  peace  and  sunshine :  so  resolved  was  I 
to  be  all  that  was  lovely  and  amiable.  I  even  list- 
ened with  apparent  patience  to  Aunt  Debby's  inter- 
minable hymns,  and  heard  some  of  her  long  stories, 
the  seventy-seventh  time,  without  any  manifest  symp- 
tom of  vexation.  It  was  about  sunset.  We  sat  to- 
gether in  the  study,  my  husband  and  myself,  watching 
the  clouds  as  they  softly  rolled  towards  the  sinking 
sun,  to  dip  their  edges  in  his  golden  beams.  The 
boughs  of  the  elms  waved  across  the  window,  giving 
us  glimpses  of  the  beautiful  vale  beyond,  bounded  by 
the  blue  outline  of  the  distant  hills.  Whether  it  was 
the  warm  light  reflected  on  his  face,  or  the  glow  of 


494:  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

the  heart  suffusing  it,  I  know  not ;  but  I  never  saw 
his  usually  pale  features  more  radiantly  lighted  up 
than  at  that  moment.  A  letter  was  brought  to  him. 
I  leaned  over  his  shoulder  while  he  opened  it.  From 
the  first  line  I  understood  its  import:  it  was  the  real- 
ization of  my  hopes.  The  offer  was  there  made — 
more  splendid,  more  liberal  than  I  had  dared  to  anti- 
cipate. I  did  not  speak:  but  with  cheeks  burning 
and  hands  trembling  with  eagerness  and  joy,  I  waited 
till  he  had  perused  it.  lie  still  continued  silent. 
Almost  indignant  at  his  calmness,  I  ejaculated  his 
name  in  an  impatient  tone;  when  he  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  paper  and  fixed  them  on  me.  I  read 
there  the  death-blow  of  my  hopes.  They  emitted  no 
glance  of  triumph:  there  was  sorrow,  regret,  humility, 
and  love — but  I  looked  in  vain  for  more.  "I  am 
sorry  for  this,"  said  he,  "for  your  sake,  my  dear 
Mary.  It  may  excite  wishes  which  can  never  be 
realized.  No!  let  us  be  happy  in  the  lowlier  sphere, 
in  which  an  all-wise  Being  has  marked  my  course.  I 
cannot  deviate  from  it."  "  Cannot !"  repeated  I :  "  say, 
rather,  you  will  not."  I  could  not  articulate  more. 
The  possibility  of  a  refusal  on  his  part  had  never 
occurred  to  me.  I  was  thunderstruck.  He  saw  my 
emotion — and,  losing  all  his  composure,  rose  and 
crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand.  "I  could  not  if  I 
would,  accept  this,"  he  cried;  "and,  were  my  own 
wishes  to  be  alone  consulted,  I  would  not,  were  I  free 
to  act.  But  it  is  not  so.  I  am  bound  to  this  place, 
by  a  solemn  promise,  which  cannot  be  broken.  Here, 
in  this  very  house,  it  was  made,  by  the  dying  bed  of 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.        495 

the  righteous,  who  bequeathed  the  people  he  loved  to 
"my  charge— we,  the  orphan  he  had  protected  and 
reared.  'Never  leave  them,  my  son,'  said  the  ex- 
piring  saint — 'never  leave  the  lambs  of  my  flock  to 
be  scattared  on  the  mountains.'  I  pledged  my  word, 
surrounded  by  the  solemnities  of  death:  yea,  even 
while  his  soul  was  taking  its  upward  flight.  It  is 
recorded,  and  cannot  be  recalled." 

Did  I  feel  the  sacredness  of  the  obligation  he  re- 
vealed ?  Did  I  venerate  the  sanctity  of  his  motives, 
and  admit  their  authority?  No!  Totally  unpre- 
pared for  such  a  bitter  disappointment,  when  I  seemed 
touching  the  summit  of  all  my  wishes,  I  was  mad- 
dened— reckless.  I  upbraided  him  for  having  more 
regard  to  a  dead  guardian,  who  could  no  longer  be 
affected  by  his  decision,  than  for  a  living  wife.  I 
threatened  to  leave  him  to  the  obscurity  in  which  he 
was  born,  and  return  to  the  friends  who  loved  me  so 
much  better  than  himself.  Seeing  him  turn  deadly 
pale  at  this,  and  suddenly  put  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
I  thought  I  had  discovered  the  spring  to  move  his 
resolution,  and  determined  that  I  would  not  let  it  go. 
I  moved  towards  the  door,  thinking  it  best  to  leave 
him  a  short  time  to  his  own  reflections,  assured  that 
love  must  be  victorious  over  conscience.  He  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  detain  me,  as  I  passed — then  again 
pressed  his  hand  on  his  heart.  That  silent  motion—, 
never,  never  can  I  forget  it ! 

"Are  you  resolved  on  this?"  asked  he,  in  a  low, 
very  hoarse  tone  of  voice.  "  Yes,  if  you  persist  in 
your  refusal.  I  leave  you  to  decide."  I  went  into 


496  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

the  next  room.  I  heard  him  walk  a  few  moments,  as 
if  agitated  and  irresolute — then  suddenly  stop.  I 
then  heard  a  low,  suppressed  cough,  but  to  this  he 
•was  always  subject,  when  excited,  and  it  caused  no 
emotion.  Yet,  after  remaining  alone  for  some  time,  I 
began  to  be  alarmed  at  the  perfect  stillness.  A  strange 
feeling  of  horror  came  over  me.  I  remembered  the 
deadly  paleness  of  his  countenance,  and  the  cold  dew 
gathered  fast  and  thick  on  my  brow.  I  recollected, 
too,  that  he  had  told  me  of  once  having  bled  at  the 
lungs,  and  of  being  admonished  to  shun  every  predis- 
posing cause  to  such  a  malady.  Strange,  that  after 
such  an  entire  oblivion  of  every  thing  but  self,  these 
reflections  should  have  pressed  upon  me  with  such 
power,  at  that  moment.  I  seemed  suddenly  gifted 
with  second  sight,  and  feared  to  move,  lest  I  should 
see  the  vision  of  my  conscience  embodied.  At  length, 
Aunt  Debby  opened  the  door,  and  for  the  first  time 
rejoicing  in  her  sight,  /entreated  her  to  go  into  the 
library,  with  an  earnestness  that  appalled  her.  She 
did  go — and  her  first  sharp  scream  drew  me  to  her 
side.  There,  reclined  upon  the  sofa,  motionless,  life- 
less— his  face  white  as  a  snow-drift,  lay  my  husband  • 
his  neckcloth  and  vest  saturated  with  the  blood  thai; 
still  flowed  from  his  lips.  Yes,  he  lay  there — lifeless, 
dead,  dead  I  The  wild  shriek  of  agony  and  remorse 
pierced  not  his  unconscious  ear.  He  was  dead,  and  / 
was  his  murderer.  The  physician  who  was  summoned, 
pronounced*  ray  doom.  From  violent  agitation  of 
mind,  a  blood  vessel  had  been  broken,  and  instant 
death  had  ensued.  Weeks  of  frenzy,  months  of  despair. 


JOYS   AND   SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN   LIFE.         497 

succeeded — of  black  despair.  Nothing  but  an  almighty 
arm  thrown  around  my  naked  soul,  held  me  back 
from  the  brink  of  suicide.  Could  I  have  believed  in 
annihilation — and  I  wrestled  with  the  powers  of  reason 
to  convince  myself  that  in  the  grave,  at  least,  I  should 
find  rest.  I  prayed  but  for  rest — I  prayed  for  oblivion. 
Night  and  day  the  image  of  that  bleeding  corse  was 
before  me.  Night  and  day  a  voice  was  ringing  in  my 
ears,  "Thou  hast  murdered  him!"  My  sufferings  were 
so  fearful  to  witness,  the  at  first  compassionate  neigh- 
bours deserted  my  pillow,  justifying  themselves  by 
the  conviction  that  I  merited  all  that  I  endured. 

My  uncle  and  aunt  came  when  they  first  heard  the 
awful  tidings,  but  unable  to  support  my  raving  dis- 
tress, left  me — after  providing  every  thing  for  my 
comfort — with  the  injunction  that  as  soon  as  I  should 
be  able  to  be  removed,  to  be  carried  to  their  house- 
hold. And  whose  kind,  unwearied  hand  smoothed 
my  lonely  pillow,  and  held  my  aching  brow  ?  Who, 
when  wounded  reason  resumed  her  empire,  applied 
the  balm  of  Gilead  and  the  oil  of  tenderness ;  led  me 
to  Nthe  feet  of  the  divine  Physician,  prayed  with  me 
and  for  me,  wept  with  me  and  over  me,  nor  rested  till 
she  saw  me  clinging  to  the  cross,  in  lowliness  of  spirit, 
with  the  seal  of  the  children  of  God  in  my  forehead, 
and  the  joy  of  salvation  in  my  soul  ?  It  was  Aunt 
Debby.  The  harsh  condemner  of  the  fashions  of  this 
world,  the  stern  reprover  of  vanity  and  pride,  the 
uncompromising  defender  of  godliness  and  truth ;  she 
who  in  my  day  of  prosperity  was  the  cloud,  in  the 
night  of  sorrow  was  my  light  and  consolation.  The 
31 


498  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

rough  bark  was  penetrated  and  the  finer  wood  beneath 
gave  forth  its  fragrance.  Oh !  how  often,  as  I  have 
heard  her,  seated  by  my  bedside,  explaining  in  a  voice 
softened  by  kindness,  the  mysteries  of  holiness,  and 
repeating  the  promises  of  mercy,  have  I  wondered, 
that  I,  who  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  same  truths, 
when  urged  upon  me  with  all  an  angel's  eloquence, 
should  listen  with  reverence  to  accents  from  which  I 
had  heretofore  turned  in  disgust !  Yet  at  times,  there 
seemed  a  dignity  in  her  tones;  her  harsh  features 
would  light  up  with  an  expression  of  devout  ecstasy, 
and  I  marvelled  at  the  transforming  power  of  Chris- 
tianity. Well  may  I  marvel !  I  would  not  now,  for 
the  diadem  of  the  east,  exchange  this  sequestered 
hermitage  for  the  halls  of  fashion — these  hallowed 
shades  for  the  canopies  of  wealth— or  the  society  of 
the  once  despised  and  hated  Aunt  Debby,  for  the  com- 
panionship of  flatterers.  I  see  nothing  but  thorns 
where  once  roses  blushed.  The  voice  of  the  charmer 
has  lost  its  power,  though  "  it  charm  never  so  wisely." 
My  heart  lies  buried  in  the  tomb  on  which  the  sun- 
light now  solemnly  glimmers — my  hopes  are  fixed  on 
those  regions  from  whence  those  rays  depart.  Had 
he  only  lived  to  forgive  me— to  know  my  penitence 
and  agony — but  the  last  words  that  ever  fell  on  his 
ear  from  my  lips,  were  those  of  passion  and  rebellion — 
the  last  glance  I  ever  cast  on  him,  was  proud  and  up 
braiding. 

The  sketch  is  finished— memory  overpowers  me. 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        499 


iimrg  JJaj. 

I  WAS  travelling  merrily  along,  in  a  snug,  green 
sleigh,  wrapped  in  buffalo  skins,  rejoicing  in  the  pros- 
pect of  a  comfortable  night's  rest,  in  the  still  village 
which  I  saw  peeping  over  the  hill  I  was  just  ascend- 
ing. It  was  a  clear,  cold,  bracing  winter's  day.  The 
ground  was  covered  with  spotless,  shining  snow,  that 
made  the  eyes  ache  from  its  intense  whiteness,  and 
the  air  had  those  little,  bright,  cutting  particles  of 
frost,  that  glance  like  a  razor  across  the  nose  and 
chin. 

"How  charmingly  I  shall  sleep  to-night,"  said  I  to 
myself,  nodding  in  fancy  at  the  very  thought,  "when 
I  reach  that  hospitable  looking  inn,  whose  sign-post 
creaks  so  invitingly  in  the  wind!  How  refreshing  a 
hot  cup  of  coffee,  and  light,  smoking  muffins  will 
taste,  after  riding  so  far  in  the  sharp,  hungry  air!" 
Regaling  myself  with  this  vision  of  anticipated  com- 
fort, I  suffered  the  reins  to  hang  a  little  too  loosely: 
my  horse,  who  was  probably  indulging  in  his  reveries 
of  oats,  and  hay,  and  a  warm  crib,  made  a  kin<?  of 
off-hand,  sliding  step,  and  with  a  most  involunt.ry 
jump,  I  vaulted  at  once  into  a  bed  of  a  very  different 
nature  from  the  one  upon  which  my  imagination  wag 
dwelling.  It  was  some  time  before  I  recovered  from 
the  stunning  effects  of  my  extemporaneous  agility 
but  when  I  rose  and  shook  off  the  snow-flakes  from. 
my  great-coat,  I  heard  the  sound  of  my  horse's  bells 


500  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

at  a  respectable  distance;  and  I  had  to  walk  speedily, 
and  limpingly  too,  to  the  next  tavern,  before  whose 
door  I  intended  to  have  made  such  a  triumphant 
flourish.  There,  I  arrived  at  the  mortifying  convic- 
tion, that  my  sleigh  was  broken,  that  my  horse  had 
run,  head  first,  against  the  shaft  of  another  sleigh,  and 
wounded  himself  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  should  pro- 
bably be  detained  several  days  on  my  journey.  I  felt 
quite  stiff  and  lame  the  next  day,  but  my  landlady 
— who  was  a  good  little  bustling  woman,  walking 
about  so  briskly  that  the  border  of  her  cap  flew  back 
and  lay  Bat  on  her  head  as  she  moved — gave  me  so 
many  warm  lotions  and  doses,  that  towards  evening, 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  recovered  my  wonted  activity.  She 
advised  me  not  to  leave  the  room  that  day,  "as  it 
would  be  a  thousand  pities,  if  I  cotched  cold,  after 
such  a  marciful  deliverance."  The  scene  from  abroad 
was  too  tempting,  however,  for  my  philosophy.  They 
may  rave  about  the  beauties  of  a  moonlight  night  in 
summer — a  night  of  shadows,  bloom  and  flowers; 
singing  birds  and  singing  rills — but  it  cannot  be  com- 
pared to  the  one  I  then  gazed  upon — it  was  so  daz- 
zlingly  bright! — the  virgin  snow  looked  so  calm  and 
holy  in  the  clear  light  that  mantled  it.  The  first  idea 
it  suggested  was  a  solemn  one.  It  lay  so  cold  and 
still,  it  reminded  me  of  the  winding-sheet  of  nature, 
till  the  almost  supernatural  radiance  that  sparkled 
from  its  surface,  recalled  to  the  imagination  those 
spotless  robes  of  glory,  which  are  described  as  the 
future  garments  of  the  righteous.  I  stood  with  my 
arms  meditatingly  folded,  absorbed  in  these  reflec- 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        501 

tions,  till  the  stars  twinkled  so  kindly,  with  such 
sweet,  beckoning  lustre  I  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  going  abroad.  I  rambled  awhile  down  the 
street,  when,  catching  the  echo  of  a  gay  laugh,  and 
an  occasional  jovial  shout,  on  the  cold,  still  air.  1 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and  soon  found 
myself  near  a  boisterous,  busy  little  group,  who  were 
engaged  in  the  delightful  amusement  of  sliding  down 
hill.  I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  their  gaiety,  and  stop- 
ping in  the  shade  of  a  high  stone  wall,  close  to  the 
spot,  watched  them  as  they*  stood  on  the  brow  of  the 
slope,  preparing  to  make  the  grand  descent.  There 
were  girls  and  boys,  without  hats,  or  bonnets,  or 
cloaks— their  cheeks  looking  so  rosy,  and  their  eyes 
so  bright,  it  made  your  own  wink  to  look  at  them. 
About  half  a  dozen  little  girls  were  wedged  closely 
together  on  a  hand-sled,  the  handle  of  which  was 
turned  back  and  held  by  one  who  sat  in  the  middle, 
in  the  capacity  of  charioteersman,  and  one  who  sat 
on  the  right  hand,  held  a  stick,  which  she  occasion- 
ally stuck  in  the  snow  to  pilot  them  on  their  way. 
There  was  one  girl  taller  and  larger  than  the  rest, 
who  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  superintendence  of  the 
band.  I  never  saw  such  a  personification  of  health, 
bloom,  and  rustic  beauty.  Her  hair,  which  was  per- 
fectly black,  hung  about  her  shoulders,  as  if  she  had 
just  shaken  out  a  confining  comb;  her  face  was 
lighted  up  with  such  a  living  glow  of  animation,  it 
made  one  feel  a  sensation  of  warmth  and  comfort  to 
gaze  on  her;  and  then  her  blithe  voice  rang  so  musi- 
cally on  the  ear,  it  gave  the  heart  a  quicker,  gladder 


502  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;    OR,   TTIE 

bound  to  hear  it.  Just  as  they  were  about  to  start 
on  their  downward  career,  there  came  a  dismal 
screeching  from  a  neighbouring  farm  yard,  that  jarred 
most  discordantly  with  the  merriment  of  the  scene. 
"Oh!"  said  one  of  the  little  girls,  in  a  doleful  tone, 
"the  poor  hens  and  chickens!  What  a  dreadful, 
cruel  thing  it  is  to  kill  'em  so  for  Thanksgiving— just 
too,  as  they  get  nicely  to  roosting!  I  won't  touch  a 
bit  of  chicken-pie  to-morrow — you  see  if  I  do."  "Do 
you  hear  her!"  started  half  a  dozen  at  once;  "she 
eha'n't  have  any  Thanksgiving,  shall  she?  And 
don't  you  pity  the  pumpkins,  and  the  apples,  and 
cranberries,  Mary?  And  don't  you  think  it  hurts 
them  to  be  cut,  and  pared,  and  stemmed!"  Here  the 
voices  were  drowned  in  peals  of  superior  laughter. 
"Never  mind,  little  Mary,"  interrupted  the  kind,  glad 
accents  of  the  elder  girl — "I  love  you  all  the  better 
for  being  pitiful,  and  so  they  all  do,  if  they  do  laugh 
at  you."  I  gathered  from  this  childish,  but  moral 
discourse,  that  the  next  day  was  to  be  Thanksgiving 
— that  good,  old-fashioned  New  England  festival,  and 
was  exceedingly  pleased  at  the  idea  of  witnessing  the 
hilarity  of  the  village  on  so  interesting  an  anniversary. 
I  recollected  that  I  had  seen,  or  rather  heard,  most 
marvellous  preparations  going  on  at  the  inn,  pound- 
ing, and  stirring,  and  rolling,  and  beating,  and  chop- 
ping, and  various  other  mysterious  sounds. 

Now,  off  they  go — faster  and  faster — the  little  sled 
glides  like  a  fairy  boat  over  a  moonlit  wave  :  now  it 
shoots  like  a  falling  star  near  the  foot  of  the  hill.  A 
shout  from  above — but,  alas !  a  cry  of  distress  from 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS   OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        503 

below !  The  triumphal  vehicle  was  overturned,  and 
the  compassionate  little  Mary  taken  up  writhing  with 
pain.  "Poor,  dear  Mary!"  exclaimed  the  pretty, 
black-eyed  lassie,  bending  anxiously  over  her;  "what 
is  the  matter  ?"  "  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  the 
poor  child ;  "  but  it  hurts  so  bad !"  Grieved  at  the 
accident  that  had  checked  their  innocent  glee,  I  im- 
mediately offered  my  services  to  carry  the  little  suf- 
ferer wherever  they  should  direct,  an  offer  which  was 
accepted  with  readiness  and  gratitude.  Fearing  she 
had  broken  a  limb,  I  bore  her  with  great  tenderness 
and  care  to  her  father's  house,  which  was  indicated  by 
her  elder  sister,  the  pretty  girl  I  admired  so  much. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  on  the  commotion  of  the 
family,  upon  the  sudden  entrance  of  a  stranger  under 
such  circumstances.  Every  body  knows  what  a  bustle 
is.  Let  those  who  love  such  scenes,  seek  for  a  de- 
scription elsewhere.  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  of  the 
good  doctor  of  the  village,  who  speedily  arrived — a 
man,  who,  "take  him  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  shall  look 
upon  his  like  again."  He  was  dressed  in  a  long, 
white,  tight-bodied  great-coat — a  broad-brimmed  white 
hat,  with  a  pair  of  huge  saddlebags  on  his  left  an  A, 
and  a  pair  of  huge  spectacles  approaching  the  ex^ 
tremity  of  a  long,  thin  nose.  He  walked  directly 
towards  the  table,  without  looking  to  the  right  or 
left;  took  off  his  hat,  laid  down  his  saddlebags,  hem- 
med—then walked  straight  to  the  fire,  sat  down,  and 
looked  wisely  into  it,  with  his  long  hands  resting  on 
his  knees.  "  Oh,  doctor !"  said  the  anxious  mother, 
"  do  look  at  the  poor  child,  and  see  what  is  the  mat- 


50-i  COURTSHIP   AXD   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

ter."  "I'll  pass  my  judgment  directly,"  said  lie, 
weighing  his  words  as  he  uttered  them.  At  last,  after 
a  great  many  preliminaries,  he  "passed  his  judgment," 
that  the  child  had  dislocated  her  collar-bone — set  it 
with  greater  expedition  than  I  expected,  resumed  his 
saddlebags  and  hat,  and  walked  directly  out  of  the 
house,  without  looking  to  the  right  or  left.  Surely, 
if  ever  mortal  man  pursued  a  steady,  undeviating 
course  in  the  line  of  duty,  it  was  Doctor  M.  And 
never  was  mortal  man  more  venerated  for  wisdom  and 
skill.  It  was  almost  believed  he  held  the  issues  of 
life  and  death  in  his  hands,  and  his  "judgments"  were 
never  disputed.  It  is  strange  there  are  so  many  in- 
veterate talkers  in  the  world,  when  a  few  words, 
slowly  uttered,  invariably  establish  a  reputation  for 
superior  sagacity.  Let  me  do  justice  to  the  good  doc- 
tor before  I  leave  him.  They  said,  when  once  you 
penetrated  the  hard,  cocoa-nut  shell  of  his  manners, 
you  met  the  sweet  flow  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
warm  from  the  best  of  human  hearts. 

The  family  were  so  grateful  for  my  attention,  that 
they  invited  me  to  come  and  partake  of  a  Thanks- 
giving dinner  with  them — an  invitation  I  gladly  ac- 
cepted, especially  as  Lucy,  my  black-eyed  favourite, 
was  the  elder  daughter  of  the  household,  and  backed 
the  request  with  a  glance,  that  flashed  as  brightly  over 
me  as  the  pine-knot  blaze  that  was  glowing  in  the 
chimney. 

Thanksgiving  morning  dawned — clear,  dazzling, 
and  cold.  The  sun  came  forth  like  a  bridegroom 
from  the  east,  unconscious  of  the  slaughtered  victims, 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        505 

whose  heads  lay  reeking  in  the  poultry-yard,  uncon- 
scious of  his  unpitying  beams.  Thanksgiving  day! 
What  "  volumes  of  meaning"  in  that  little  phrase !  A 
day  when  man  makes  a  covenant  of  gratitude  with  his 
Maker  for  the  free  bounties  of  the  year ;  when  the 
fragrant  incense  of  the  heart  rises  up  warm  and  fresh, 
above  earth's  cold,  wintry  mantle,  sweeter  than  the 
arorna  of  summer  flowers,  and  mingles  with  the  odours 
of  Paradise !  I  went  that  morning  to  the  village 
church — a  plain,  modest  building,  distinguished  by  a 
tall,  white  spire,  that  arrested  the  first  and  last  glances 
of  the  magnificent  eye  of  the  universe.  The  village 
pastor — what  endearing  associations  cluster  around 
that  name ! — stood  in  the  act  of  prayer,  as  I  entered : 
I  caught  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  it  filled  me  with 
venerating  sensations.  It  had  that  deep,  full,  organ 
sound,  which  breathes  so  eloquently  of  soul ;  and  as 
it  rose  with  the  fervour  of  his  feelings,  and  rolled 
through  the  arch  of  the  simple,  but  heaven-dedicated 
walls,  I  felt  my  spirit  as  irresistibly  borne  along  on 
these  waves  of  sound,  towards  the  ocean  of  eternity, 
as  the  fallen  leaf  upon  the  billowy  sea.  I  never  heard 
such  a  voice  in  my  life.  "How,"  thought  I,  gazing 
in  wonder  on  his  evangelical  face,  pale,  but  illumined 
with  the  glow  of  devotion, — "  how  came  such  a  man 
here?"  Towards  the  close  of  the  prayer,  the  deep, 
majestic  tones  of  adoration  and  praise  gradually 
lowered  to  the  softer  accents  of  humility  and  love. 
He  sat  down ;  there  was  a  hush,  as  if  the  Spirit  of 
God  had  descended  and  was  brooding  over  the  abysses 
of  the  human  heart.  I  wish  I  were  not  limited  to  a 


506  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

sketch,  that  I  might  dwell  long  on  this  meek,  richly- 
gifted  apostle  of  our  divine  religion.  Never  before 
had  Christianity  seemed  to  me  so  lovely  and  august. 
His  sermon  was  tho  most  eloquent  I  ever  heard — 
fraught  with  glowing  images,  with  earnest,  affecting, 
and  energetic  exhortations.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  a 
monster  of  ingratitude,  and  I  made  a  vow  to  myself, 
to  live  hereafter  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  I  fear  you 
will  think  I  did  not  fulfil  my  vow,  when  I  passed  the 
succeeding  scenes.  Yes,  I  must  descend  from  the 
holy  mount  of  prayer  and  praise,  to  the  simple,  heart- 
felt socialities  of  a  village  life.  Imagine  me,  then, 
seated  at  a  long  table,  covered  with  spotless  linen,  and 
groaning  with  unutterable  comforts,  and  around  that 
table  three  generations  gathered.  "First  the  blade, 
then  the  ear,  then  the  full  corn  in  the  ear."  There 
sat  the  grandfather  and  grandmother,  their  brows 
whitened  with  the  harvest  of  life,  ready  to  be  gathered 
into  the  heavenly  garner :  then  the  respectable  farmer 
and  matron,  the  heads  of  the  household,  in  the  quietude 
of  conscious  competency  and  domestic  happiness; 
then  the  children,  from  my  pretty  Lucy,  down  to  a 
little  chubby,  golden-haired,  blue-eyed  thing  that 
peeped  from  her  grandfather's  knee,  like  a  violet  from 
a  snow-bank.  The  old  man  raised  his  feeble  hand, 
and  every  head  was  bowed,  as,  with  a  palsied,  difficult 
voice,  he  called  down  a  blessing  on  the  bounteous 
board.  Even  the  infant  on  his  knee  clasped  its  little 
hands,  and  looked  reverently  in  its  grandfather's  face, 
as  if  it  were  conscious  it  had  something  to  do  with 
Leaven.  After  a  decent  pause,  the  business  of  grati- 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        507 

tude  commenced.  The  roasted  turkey — the  lord  of 
the  table ;  the  chickens,  roast  beef,  chicken  pie,  with 
its  circumvolutions  of  paste,  salient  angles,  and  loop- 
holes, were  first  to  be  demolished,  with  the  accompa- 
nying vegetables  and  relishes,  the  bright  green 
pickles,  garnished  with  the  scarlet  barberries. 
Then  came  the  plum  puddings,  and  mince  pies, 
and  apples,  and  custard,  and  cranberry-tarts ;  and 
pumpkin  pudding,  and  apple  custard :  and  it  would 
have  been  considered  the  height  of  ingratitude  to 
have  refused  one  of  these  dainties.  A  triangular 
piece  of  each  pie  was  put  upon  a  plate,  till  they  made 
a  perfect  wheel  of  party-coloured  spokes.  Lucy  sat 
by  my  side  and  received  my  gallant  compliments,  with 
a  mingled  bashfulness  and  roguery  of  expression, 
which  was  completely  bewitching  to  me.  I  was  what 
they  called  a  genteel,  good-looking  young  man,  and 
had  a  tolerably  good  opinion  of  my  own  powers  cf 
pleasing.  I  thought  there  could  be  no  possible  ham 
in  flirting  a  little  with  the  pretty  rustic.  I  was  in- 
cited to  this  by  the  evident  discomposure  of  a  youth, 
who  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  whose  coun- 
tenance presented  the  oddest  mixture  of  displeasure, 
fear,  and  shame-facedness  1  ever  witnessed.  He  had 
really  a  fine  face,  but  it  was  so  disguised  by  these 
different  expressions,  it  had  something  inexpressibly 
ludicrous  in  it.  He  sat  at  a  distance  from  the  table, 
with  his  feet  on  the  rounds  of  the  chair,  so  that  he 
was  obliged  to  reach  forward  his  head  and  arms  most 
lengtheningly ;  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  so  ruefully, 
yet  indignantly  on  Lucy  and  myself,  that  he  could 


508  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THK 

not  find  the  right  path  from  his  plate  to  his  mouth. 
Lucy  seemed  saucily  to  enjoy  his  awkwardness  and 
confusion,  and,  true  to  her  sex,  triumphed  in  her 
power.  At  last,  seeing  that  he  had  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  over  his  untouched  pie,  she  asked 
with  real  interest  and  kindness  of  tone, 

"William,  why  don't  you  eat?  I  am  afraid  you 
are  sick." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  appetite,"  said  he,  huskily. 

"You've  lost  it  very  suddenly,"  said  she,  archly. 

At  this,  he  cast  at  me  a  glance  of  dim  fierceness,  so 
irresistibly  comical,  I  had  recourse  to  a  convenient  fit 
of  coughing,  to  hide  the  rising  laugh.  Lucy  caught 
the  infection,  and  unable  to  resist  the  impulse,  laughed 
outright.  The  poor  fellow  started  on  his  feet,  set 
back  his  chair,  with  a  tremendous  noise,  snatched  up 
his  hat,  and  marched  directly  out  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  Lucy,  what  have  you  donel"  said  her  mother 
reproachfully. 

"Lucy,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  1"  uttered 
her  rougher  father. 

I  looked  at  Lucy.  Her  face  was  the  colour  of  crim- 
son, and  an  expression  of  alarm,  struggled  with  her 
scarcely  conquered  mirth.  I  began  to  think  I  had 
curried  matters  a  little  too  far,  and  that  Lucy  was 
rather  too  much  of  a  coquette.  I  was  sorry  for  the 
pain  I  had  given  his  honest  heart,  and  for  the  con- 
fusion into  which  I  had  thrown  the  good  people. 
She  was  evidently  ashamed  of  having  me  suppose 
that  he  had  any  right  to  be  displeased,  and  put  up 
her  pretty  lip,  and  said  she  was  sure  she  did  not  care: 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        509 

"lie  was  nothing  to  her— he  had  no  business  to  look 
so  funny."  My  thoughts  -were  diverted  into  a  new 
channel,  by  a  side  conversation  which  was  going  on 
by  the  couch  of  little  Mary,  (which  was  nicely  made 
up  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  within  full  view  of  the 
dainties  of  the  day,)  between  her  and  a  cousin  of  the 
same  age,  upon  the  comparative  merits  of  the  different 
pies  their  mothers  had  made,  their  superior  quality 
and  quantity.  At  last  the  dispute  became  very  warm 
— their  tones  grew  angry,  and  every  little  sentence 
began  with  "I  say." 

"What  a  lesson  might  the  proud  wrestlers  in  the 
great  arena  of  life  take  from  these  Lilliputian  dis- 
putants! They  rested  their  claims  to  superiority 
upon  the  majority  of  pies  made  in  their  households, 
and  each  pie,  in  their  eyes,  was  of  more  value  and 
importance  than  the  star  of  the  legion  of  honour.  It 
may  seem  a  trifling  theme;  but  many  a  time  since 
that  hour,  when  I  have  heard  tne  high  and  mighty, 
in  mind  and  name,  contend  for  the  poor  straws  of 
earthly  distinction,  I  have  thought  of  the  eager,  posi- 
tive, triumphant  assertion,  "my  motlier  made  the  most 
pies" 

To  return  to  my  rustic  coquette.  As  evening  ap- 
proached, her  vivacity  was  rather  upon  the  wane:  she 
cast  restless  glances  towards  the  door:  at  the  sound 
of  the  merry,  jingling  bells  she  ran  to  the  windows, 
and  looked  earnestly  out,  as  if  looking  for  something, 
whose  coming  she  watched  in  vain.  "He  won't  come, 
Lucy,"  whispered  her  sister  to  her.  "I  don't  believe 
he  will  ever  come  near  you  again.  You  can't  go  to 


^  510  COfRTSIIIP  AND  MARRIAGE ;  OR,  THE 

the  ball."  "I  don't  care,"  answered  Lucy;  but  as  she 
tucked  away,  I  saw  tears  gathering  in  her  bright 
eyes,  which  belied  the  indifference  of  her  words.  I 
understood  at  once  the  state  of  the  case.  This  awk- 
ward youth  was  probably  a  sweetheart  of  hers,  who, 
when  free  from  the  demon  spell  of  jealousy,  was  very 
likely  a  glass  of  fashion  to  the  village  dandies. 
There  was  to  be  a  Thanksgiving  ball,  aud  he  was  to 
have  been  her  partner.  In  a  paroxysm  of  jealousy 
he  had  left  her  in  the  lurch;  and  the  prettiest  lassie 
in  the  country  was  doomed  to  the  penalty  of  staying 
at  home,  because  she  could  not  get  her  beau! 

This  would  never  do.  As  I  had  been  the  bane,  I 
resolved  to  act  (lie  part  of  the  antidote.  I  managed 
to  introduce  the  subject  of  the  ball;  said  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  I  should  be  so  much  pleased  to 
witness,  and  if  she  would  allow  me  the  honour  of  at- 
tending her  there,  I  should  be  extremely  happy,  &c., 
&c.  Her  countenance  became  radiant  with  animation. 
From  what  bitter  mortification  I  had  saved  her! 
What  a  noble  revenge  would  she  inflict  on  her  plebeian 
swain! 

I  have  not  leisure  to  tell  the  hows — the  ^hys— 
the  wherefores,  and  where  by  s — we  are  in  the  ball- 
room, on  Thanksgiving  eve — a  New  England  ball- 
room. If  a  son  or  daughter  of  the  land  of  pilgrims 
should  read  this  sketch,  who  has  ever  been  so  blessed 
as  to  witness  such  a  scene,  they  behold  it  at  this  mo- 
ment in  their  mind's  eye.  Scrape  go  the  fiddles — 
pat  go  the  feet — the  girls,  all  in  pure,  simple  white, 
with  here  and  there  a  gay  ribbon  and  fluttering 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        511 

flower,  scamper  dovn  the  dance:  the  young  men, 
with  stiff,  starched  collars,  and  shining  metal  buttons, 
and  heavy  heels,  foot  it  briskly  after. 

The  floor  has  a  noble  spring,  and  those  who  are 
sitting  around,  spectators  of  the  exhilarated  actors, 
feel  their  feet  keeping  time  involuntarily,  and  their 
heads  nodding,  before  they  know  what  they  are  do- 
ing. What  would  my  patrician  friends  have  said  to 
see  me  cutting  the  pigeon-wing,  and  taking  the 
double  shuffle  with  the  superfluous  animation  that  I 
exercised  that  evening!  Yet  I  would  not  have  been 
ashamed  of  my  sweet  partner,  even  in  the  heart  of  the 
metropolis.  She  did  look  lovely.  To  be  sure,  her 
sleeves  were  not  twice  as  large  as  her  body — her 
shoulders  were  where  nature  placed  them — and, 
worse  than  all,  she  wore  round-toed  shoes!  But  her 
robe  was  as  white  as  the  snow  on  which  the  moon- 
beams shone,  and  her  face  as  blooming  as  the  red 
rose  that  decorated  her  brow.  I  was  really  half  in 
love  with  her,  and  I  rattled  more  nonsense  in  her  ear 
'  than  her  unsophisticated  imagination  ever  dreamed 
of.  Her  vanity  was  greatly  excited,  for  I  was  the 
gentkman  of  the  party,  and  the  young  gi'rls  looked 
upon  her  conquest  with  envy — that  mildew  which 
falls  on  the  sweet  blossom  of  the  valley  as  well  as  the 
exotic  of  the  greenhouse.  At  length  the  tide  of 
youthful  spirits  began  to  ebb:  the  bounding  step 
softened  down  into  a  kind  of  weary  slide:  the  lights 
looked  dim,  and  a  sleepy  cloud  floated  over  the 
young,  starry  eyes  shining  around  me.  Lucy  never 
opened  her  lips  while  I  was  escorting  her  home. 


512  COURTSHIP  AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THK 

She  seemed  to  be  communing  with  her  own  con- 
science, which  probably  gave  her  some  remorseless 
twinges  and  regretful  pangs.  For  my  own  part,  the 
excitement  of  the  occasion  being  over,  I  felt  a  little 
sheepish  for  the  part  I  had  taken. 

The  next  morning,  every  thing  being  ready  for  my 
departure,  I  called  to  bid  farewell  to  Lucy,  with  the 
commendable  resolution  of  speaking  to  her  frankly 
on  the  subject  of  her  jealous  love,  and  recommending 
to  her  reconciliation  and  forgiveness.  I  found  her 
with  an  open  letter  in  her  lap,  the  living  carnations 
of  her  cheeks  all  withered  and  pale,  and  tears  that 
seemed  wrung  by  agony,  streaming  from  her  late 
glad  eyes. 

"What  has  happened,  Lucy?''  said  I,  trembling 
with  indefinite  apprehension.  She  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  not;  and  then  put  the  letter  into  my  hand.  I 
read  it,  and  wished  I  had  been  shot.  I  will  transcribe 
it  as  faithfully  as  my  memory  allows,  and  I  think  I 
remember  every  word  of  it,  for  it  seemed  stamped 
upon  my  mind  as  with  a  red-hot  iron. 

"DEAR  LUCY, — 

"I'm  going  away — a  great  way  off— and  I  don't 
want  to  go  without  letting  you  know  that  I  forgive 
you  the  wrong  you've  done  me.  Oh,  Lucy!  if  you 
only  knew  how  it  cut  me  to  the  heart,  when  you 
laughed  at  and  made  game  of  me,  before  that  line  new- 
sweetheart  of  yours,  you  never  would  have  done  it: 
for  he  never  can  love  you  as  well  as  I  have  done;  for 
he's  known  you  but  a  day  as  'twere,  and  I — we've 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS   OF   AMERICAN"   LIFE.        513 

known  each  other  from  children,  and  I've  loved  you 
better  than  any  thing  else  in  the  world  ever  since  I 
knew  how.  I'm  going  to  sea,  to  sail  on  the  great 
waters,  and  perhaps  I  may  make  my  grave  in  them ; 
for  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  any  thing  to  live  for  now. 
I  always  had  a  kind  of  longing  for  the  sea;  but  I 
hated  to  leave  you  behind.  It's  no  matter  now.  If  I 
thought  you'd  be  sorry,  I  think  I'd  be  willing  to  die. 
Good  bye,  Lucy, — I  hope  you'll  be  happy  as  long  as 
you  live. 

"No  more  at  present  from  your  faithful 

"WILLIAM." 

Thus  ran  poor  William's  letter.  Oh,  what  mis- 
chief had  my  idle  vanity  wrought!  What  would  I 
not  have  given  to  have  blotted  out  the  record  of  one 
thoughtless  hour!  The  angel  of  consideration  had 
whipped  the  offending  spirit  of  coquetry  from  her 
bosom.  The  memory  of  his  early  love  and  devotion 
-  -his  integrity  and  truth — came  back  upon  her  with 
the  fragrance  and  freshness  of  the  opening  spring. 
Then  the  thought  of  the  cold,  dark  waters  to  which 
she  had  driven  him — of  his  finding  there  an  untimely 
grave — and  his  injured  ghost  coming  and  standing 
beside  her  bed  at  the  midnight  hour,  and  crying — 
;'0h,  cruel  Lucy!1'  I  read  all  this  in  her  wobegone 
face;  and  penetrated  with  remorse,  I  took  her  hand, 
and  said  with  a  manly  feeling,  which  I  think  did  rne 
honour — "Lucy,  I  am  sorry  for  you  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart.  I  am  alone  to  blame.  Your  William 
will  come  back  again — I  am  sure  he  will — and  if  he 
32 


514  COURTSHIP  AXD   MARRIAGE;    OR,   THE 

does  not — by  Heaven!  I  will  marry  you  myself  I 
Yes,  I  am  going  a  long  journey — perhaps  I,  too,  must 
cross  the  ocean ;  but  I  shall  return  in  two  years,  if  my 
life  is  spared;  and  then,  if  you  are  willing,  my  pretty 
Lucy,  I'll  marry  you,  and  cherish  you  tenderly  as 
long  as  I  live." 

"You  are  very,  very  kind,"  sobbed  Lucy,  "and  I 
like  you  very  much — but  I'd  rather  have  William, 
after  all." 

Oh,  simple  and  unadulterated  nature !  how  eloquent 
thou  art!  Art  never  taught  its  polished  votaries  a 
sentence  more  beautifully  impressive,  than  this  spon- 
taneous expression  of  truth  and  sensibility  1 

Let  us  suppose  two  years  and  a  little  more  are 
passed — that  spring  has  covered  the  hill-side  with 
green,  and  the  valley  with  bloom.  It  was  this  sweet 
season  when  I  again  stopped  at  the  village  where  I 
had  spent  the  memorable  Thanksgiving  day.  It  was 
Sunday.  Every  thing  was  perfectly  still :  even  my 
bustling  little  landlady  had  gone  to  meeting  without 
asking  a  single  question.  I  brushed  the  dust  from 
my  garments,  and  took  the  path  to  the  white  church, 
that  now  contrasted  beautifully  with  the  velvet  com- 
mon on  which  it  was  built.  I  entered :  again  I  heard 
those  deep,  adoring  accents  which  had  once  before 
thrilled  through  my  very  soul :  again  I  looked  on  the 
benign  countenance  of  the  servant  of  God,  still  bearing 
the  sacred  impress  of  his  celestial  embassy.  I  looked 
round.  My  eyes  rested  upon  a  pew  not  far  from  the 
pulpit,  and  they  wandered  no  more.  I  felt  as  if  a 
mountain  were  removed  from  my  heart.  Lucy  was 


JOYS  AND   SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN   LIFE.        515 

there,  more  beautiful  than  ever :  her  fair  brow  turned 
thoughtfully  upwards,  and  a  sweet,  subdued  ex- 
pression diffused  over  her  whole  sunny  face;  and 
William  was  by  her  side,  in  the  dignity  of  manhood, 
and,  no  longer  under  the  dominion  of  a  withering 
passion,  looked  not  unworthy  of  his  blooming  bride. 
As  soon  as  the  service  was  over,  I  stood  in  the  broad 
aisle,  waiting  for  them  to  pass  out.  My  heart 
throbbed  quicker  as  they  approached  with  that  sober, 
decent  pace,  which  becomes  those  who  are  leaving  the 
temple  of  the  Most  High.  At  length  she  raised  her 
downcast  eye,  and  it  fell  upon  my  face :  a  glow  like 
the  morning  overspread  her  own. 

"  Oh  1  sir,"  said  she,  after  the  first  heartfelt  greeting 
was  over,  "  I  am  so  happy  now  1  William  has  come 
back,  you  see,  and" — "  And  you  are  married,"  added 
I,  taking  up  her  hesitating  speech.  William  blushed, 
and  turned  upon  her  a  look  of  such  pride  and  affec- 
tion, I  almost  envied  him.  I  have  had  many  a  joyous 
hour,  but  never  have  I  felt  so  exquisitely  happy  as  in 
the  conviction  that  moment  brought  me,  that  the 
honest,  loving  hearts  my  folly  had  severed,  were  again 
united  in  those  holy  bands,  which  God  having  formed, 
ware  never  more  to  be  lightly  sundered. 


516  COURTSHIP   AND   MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 


Ejje  Slnmgcr  at  iljc 

'TWAS  a  festal  eve.  The  lamps  sent  down  their 
trembling  rays,  reflected  by  shining  crystal,  and 
wreathing  silver,  on  myriad  forms  of  beauty  and 
grace.  The  music  sent  forth  the  most  gladdening 
strains,  and  bounding  feet  kept  time  to  the  joyous 
melody.  Evening  shades  deepened  into  midnight 
gloom  without,  yet  still  the  gay  notes  were  heard,  and 
the  unwearied  revellers  continued  their  graceful  evo- 
lutions. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve,  a  stranger  entered 
the  banqueting  room,  and  as  she  passed  slowly  on  un- 
announced, and  unaccompanied  by  any  guide  or  pro- 
tector, every  eye  was  turned  towards  her.  "  "Who  can 
she  be?"  whispered  a  young  girl  to  her  partner, 
drawing  close  to  his  side. 

He  answered  not,  so  intently  was  he  gazing  on  the 
figure,  which  now  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  hall, 
looking  calmly  and  immoveably  on  those  around. 
Her  white  robes  fell  in  long,  slumberous  folds  to  her 
feet ;  her  fair  shining  hair  floated  back  from  her  face, 
like  fleecy  clouds,  tinged  by  the  moonbeam's  radiance, 
and  the  still  depths  of  her  azure  eyes  shone  with  a 
mysterious,  unfathomable  lustre. 

"  Why  are  ye  gathered  here?"  asked  she  of  the 
young  maiden,  who  shrunk  back,  as  she  glided  near 
her,  with  noiseless  step.  "What  mean  these  glad 
strains,  and  the  flowers  that  decorate  your  brows  ?" 


JOYS  AND  SOKROWS  OF   AMERICAN  LIFE.        517 

The  lo\v,  thrilling  melody  of  the  stranger's  voice 
echoed  to  the  remotest  corners  of  that  spacious  hall, 
and  the  minstrels  paused  to  listen. 

"  'Tis  a  festal  eve,"  answered  the  trembling  maiden, 
"and  we  have  met  in  joy  and  mirth,  to  commemorate 
the  era." 

"Why  is  this  night  chosen  as  a  scene  of  festivity?" 
asked  the  sweet-voiced  stranger. 

"It  is  Christmas  eve,"  replied  the  maiden,  "the 
birth-night  of  our  Saviour,  and  it  is  our  custom  to 
celebrate  it  with  music  and  dancing." 

"It  was  once  celebrated  in  ancient  days,"  said  the 
stranger,  "with  a  splendour  and  beauty  that  would 
shame  the  decorations  of  these  walls.  While  the  shep- 
herds of  Chaldea  were  watching  their  flocks  beneath 
the  starry  glories  of  midnight,  they  heard  strains  of 
more  than  mortal  melody  gushing  around  them — 
rolling  above  them — the  thrilling  of  invisible  harps, 
accompanied  by  celestial  voices,  all  breathing  one 
sweet,  triumphant  anthem— 'Glory  to  God  in  the 
Highest;  on  Earth  peace,  and  good  will  to  men.' 
While  they  listened  in  adoring  wonder,  one  of  the 
stars  of  Heaven  glided  from  its  throne,  and  travelling 
slowly  over  the  depths  of  ether,  held  its  silver  lamps 
-  over  the  manger,  where  slept  the  babe  of  Bethlehem. 
Then  the  wise  men  of  the  Bast  came  with  their 
costly  offerings,  and  laid  them  clown  at  the  feet  of 
the  infant  Kedeemer.  And  where  are  your  gifts?" 
continued  she,  turning  her  still,  shining  eyes  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  listening  throng.  "What  have 
ye  brought  this  night  to  lay  at  your  Saviour's  feet 


518  COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

in  commemoration  of  your  gratitude  and  love  ? 
Where  is  your  gold,  your  frankincense,  your  myrrh? 
Where  are  the  gems  from  the  heart's  treasury,  that 
ye  are  ready  to  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  your  Lord  ?" 

The  young  maiden  whom  she  had  first  addressed, 
cast  one  tearful,  earnest  glance  on  her  gay  com- 
panions; then  unbinding  the  roses  from  her  brow,  the 
jewels  from  her  neck,  and  drawing  from  her  fingers 
each  golden  ring,  "Where  is  the  altar,"  she  cried, 
"that  I  may  place  my  offerings  there?" 

"Come  with  me,"  said  the  stranger,  "and  I  will 
lead  you  where  you  can  find  more  precious  gifts  than 
these.  Gifts  that  will  retain  their  beauty,  when  these 
garlands  shall  wither,  and  the  diamond  and  fine  gold 
become  dim." 

The  maiden  took  hold  of  the  stranger's  hand,  and 
passed  through  the  hall,  which  she  had  so  lately 
entered  in  thoughtless  vanity  and  mirth.  Her  com- 
panions pressed  round  her  and  impeded  her  way. 
"  Oh,  stay  with  us  1"  they  exclaimed,  "  and  follow  not 
the  steps  of  the  stranger :  your  eyes  are  dim,  your 
cheek  is  pale,  shadows  are  gathering  over  your  face. 
She  may  lead  you  to  the  chambers  of  death." 

"Hinder  me  not,"  cried  the  fair  maiden;  "I  may 
net  slight  the  voice  that  summons  me.  'Though  I 
walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I 
will  fear  no  evil.'  " 

A  celestial  smile  beamed  on  the  face  of  the  stranger 
as  the  young  girl  uttered  these  words,  and  they  dis- 
appeared from  the  festive  hall.  Through  the  long 
Bwccping  shadows  of  midnight  they  glided  on,  till 


JOYS   AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        619 

they  came  to  a  wretched  hovel,  through  whose  shat- 
tered casements  the  night  gust  was  moaning,  mak- 
ing most  melancholy  music.  By  the  dim  light  of  a 
taper,  they  beheld  a  pale  mother,  cradling  her  wasted 
infant  in  her  arms,  striving  to  hush  its  feeble  wail- 
ings,  looking  down  with  hollow  eyes  on  the  fearful 
ravages  of  famine  and  disease,  then  raising  them  in 
agony  to  Heaven,  imploring  the  widow's  and  the 
orphan's  God  to  have  mercy  on  her. 

"Lay  down  your  golden  offerings  here,"  said  the 
stranger,  "and  your  Saviour  will  accept  the  gift. 
Have  ye  not  read  that  whosoever  presenteth  a  cup 
of  cold  water  to  one  of  the  least  of  his  disciples,  in 
his  name,  giveth  it  unto  him?" 

The  maiden  wept,  as  she  laid  her  offering  in  the 
widow's  emaciated  hand.  Again  the  beauteous 
stranger  smiled.  "The  tear  of  pity,"  said  she,  "is  the 
brightest  gem  thou  hast  brought." 

She  led  her  forth  into  the  darkness  once  more, 
and  held  such  sweet  and  heavenly  discourse  that 
the  heart  of  the  maiden  melted  within  her  bosom. 
They  came  to  a  dwelling  whence  strains  of  solemn 
music  issued,  and  as  the  light  streamed  from  the 
arching  windows,  it  was  reflected  with  ghostly  lustre 
on  marble  tomb-stones  gleaming  without. 

"They  breathe  forth  a  requiem  for  the  dead,"  said 
the  stranger,  and  she  entered  the  gate  through  wil- 
lows that  wept  over  the  path.  The  music  ceased, 
and  the  low,  deep  voice  of  prayer  ascended  through 
the  silence  of  the  night.  The  maiden  knelt  on  the 
threshold,  for  she  felt  that  she  was  not  worthy  to 


520  COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;   OR,   THE 

enter  into  the  temple.  She  hardly  dared  to  lift 
her  trembling  eyes  to  Heaven ;  but  bending  her  fore- 
head to  the  dust  and  clasping  her  hands  on  her 
breast,  she  exclaimed,  "God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sin- 
ner!" 

"Thy  Saviour  will  accept  the  offering,"  uttered  the 
stranger  in  her  ear;  "the  prayer  of  a  broken  and  con- 
trite spirit,  is  an  incense  more  precious  to  Him  than 
all  the  odours  of  the  East." 

"  You  shall  see  me  again,"  said  the  stranger,  when 
she  led  the  young  maiden  to  her  own  home,  by  the 
light  of  the  dawning  day;  "you  shall  see  me  again, 
and  we  will  walk  together  once  more,  but  not  among 
scenes  of  sorrow  and  death,  for  they  shall  all  have  fled 
away.  Neither  will  we  walk  through  the  shades  of 
midnight,  for  'there  will  be  no  night  there.'  There 
will  be  no  moon,  nor  stars  to  illumine  the  place,  'for 
the  glory  of  God  shall  lighten  it,  and  the  Lamb  be  the 
light  thereof.'  Farewell — I  may  not  dwell  with  you, 
but  ye  shall  come  and  abide  with  me,  if  ye  continue 
to  walk  in  the  path  where  I  have  guided  your  steps." 

Never  more  were  the  steps  of  that  young  maiden 
seen  in  the  halls  of  mirth,  or  the  paths  of  sin.  She 
went  about  among  the  children  of  sorrow  and  want, 
'binding  up  the  wounds  of  sorrow,  and  relieving  the 
pangs  of  want.  She  hung  over  the  death-bed  of  the 
penitent,  and  breathed  words  of  hope  into  the  dull  ear 
of  despair.  Men  looked  upon  her  as  she  passed  along, 
in  her  youthful  beauty,  as  an  angel  visitant,  and  they 
blessed  her  in  her  wanderings.  Her  once  companions 
turned  aside,  shrinking  from  comiimuiou  witli  ouo 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.        521 

whose  eyes  now  spoke  a  holier  language  than  that  of 
earth.  They  felt  that  she  was  no  longer  one  of  them, 
and  after  wondering  and  speaking  of  her  a  little  while, 
she  was  forgotten  by  them  in  the  revelries  of  plea- 
sure. 

At  length  she  was  no  longer  seen  by  those  who 
watched  for  her  daily  ministrations.  Her  place  was 
vacant  in  the  temple  of  God.  The  music  of  her  voice 
was  no  more  heard  in  prayer  and  praise.  On  a  lowly 
couch  in  her  own  darkened  room,  that  young  maiden 
was  reclining.  Her  face  was  pallid,  and  her  eyes  dim, 
and  her  mother  was  weeping  over  her.  Flowers  were 
strewed  upon  her  pillow,  whose  sweet  breath  stole 
lovingly  over  her  faded  cheek;  and  as  the  curtains  of 
the  windows  waved  softly  i%  the  night  breeze,  the 
moonbeams  glided  in  and  kissed  her  wan  brow.  The 
mother  heard  no  step,  but  she  felt  the  air  part  near 
the  couch,  and  looking  up  she  saw  a  figure  standing 
in  white  flowing  robes  by  her  daughter's  side,  with  a 
face  of  such  unearthly  sweetness,  she  trembled  as  she 
gazed  upon  her. 

"Maiden,"  said  she,  "I  have  come  once  more.  1 
told  thee  we  should  meet  again,  and  this  is  the  ap- 
pointed hour.  Does  thy  spirit  welcome  my  coming?" 

"My  soul  has  thirsted  for  thee,"  answered  the  faiat 
voice  of  the  maiden,  "even  as  the  blossom  thirsts  for 
the  dew  of  the  morning;  but  I  may  not  follow  thee 
now,  for  my  feeble  feet  bear  me  no  longer  over  the 
threshold  of  home." 

"Thy  feet  shall  be  as'the  young  roe  on  the  moun- 
tain," answered  the  white-robed  stranger;  "thou  shalt 


522  COURTSHIP   ANi>   MARRIAGE. 

mount  on  wings  as  the  eagle."  Then  bending  over 
the  couch,  and  breathing  on  the  cheek  of  the  maiden, 
its  pale  hue  changed  to  the  whiteness  of  marble,  and 
the  hand  which  her  mother  held,  turned  cold  as  an 
icicle.  At  the  same  moment  the  folds  of  the  stranger's 
robe  floated  from  her  shoulders,  and  wings  of  resplen- 
dent azure  softening  into  gold,  fluttered  on  the  gaze. 
Divine  perfumes  filled  the  atmosphere,  and  a  low,  sweet 
melody,  like  the  silvery  murmuring  of  distant  waters, 
echoed  through  the  chamber.  Awe-struck  and  be- 
wildered, the  mother  turned  from  the  breathless  form 
of  her  child,  to  the  celestial  figure  of  the  stranger, 
when  she  saw  it  gradually  fading  from  her  sight,  and 
encircled  in  its  arms  there  seemed  another  being  of 
shadowy  brightness,  with  outspread  wings  and  fleecy 
robes,  and  soft,  glorious  eyes  fixed  steadfastlly  on  her, 
till  they  melted  away  and  were  seen  no  more.  Then 
the  mother  bowed  herself  in  adoration,  as  well  as  sub- 
mission; for  she  knew  she  had  looked  on  one  of  those 
angel  messengers  who  are  "sent  to  minister  to  those 
who  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation."  She  had  seen,  too,  a 
vision  of  her  daughter's  ascending  spirit,  and  she 
mourned  not  over  the  dust  she  had  left  behind. 


THE  END. 


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trated.   Two  vols. ,  cloth .     Price  $2. 50. 
Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons. 
First    Series.      By    Dow,    Jr. 

Containing  128  Sermons.  Complete  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  or 
paper  cover,  75  cents. 

Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons. 
Second  Series.  By  Dow,  Jr. 
Containing  144  Sermons.  Complete  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  ;  01 
paper  cover,  75  cents. 

Dow's  Short  Paten'.  Sermons. 
Third  Series,  ty  Dow,  Jr, 
Containing  116  Sera>  m*.  Complete  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar;  ol 
paper  cover,  75  K,nts. 

American  Joe  Miller.  With  100 
Illustrations.  One  of  the  most  humor- 
ous  books  in  the  world  Price  25  centi 


Major   Jones'  Courtship   and 
Travels.      Beautifully   illustrated. 


n  Geor- 

strations. 
Price  $1.25. 


One  volume,  cloth.    Price  $1.25. 

Major  Jones'  Scenes  I 
gia.  Full  of  beautiful  illu 
One  volume,  cloth. 

Sam  Slick,  the   Clockmaker. 

By  Judge  Halibnrton.  Illustrated. 
Being  the  best  funny  work  ever  writ- 
ten by  any  one  in  this  vein.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

•  Imoii  Suggs'  Adventures 
and  Travels.  Illustrated.  One 
volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

Humors  of  Falconbrldge.  Two 
volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dol- 
lar ;  or  one  vol.,  clotn,  for  $1.25. 

Frank     Forester's     Sporting 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    I 

CHARLES  DICKKXS'  WORKS. 

fourteen  Di/ereiU  EdUi-mt  in  Octavo  J)»n». 

"PETKKSON'8"  are  the  only  complete  and  uniform  editions  of  Charles  Dickens 
W«rk»  ever  published  in  the  world ;  they  are  printed  from  the  original  London  Kdl- 
ivon«,  and  are  the  only  editions  published  in  this  country.  No  library  fe'that 
pablie  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it  a  complete  sett  of  tk4 
works  of  tliirt,  the  greatest  of  all  living  author*.  Every  family  should  poiwees  a 
•ait  of  one  of  the  edition*.  The  cheap  edition  is  complete  in  Sixteen  Volumes 
paper  cover  ;  either  or  all  of  which  can  be  had  separately,  as  follow* : 


Little  Dorrlt, Price  60  cents. 

Pickwick  Paper*, 00     " 

Dickens'  New  Stories,  60     " 

Bleak   House, 60      " 

David  Copp«rfleld, 00     " 

Dombey   and   Son, 60     " 

Nicholas  Mcklehy, 60     «• 

Christmas    Stories, 60     " 

Martin  Chuzzlewlt,....  60     " 

A  complete  sett  of  the  above  Sixteen  books,  will  be  sold,  or  sent  to  any  oie,  U 
place,  A*  </  portage,  for  $6.00. 


Barnaby  Rudge,.../Vioj  00  e»nU 

Old  Curiosity   Shop,....  50  " 

Sketches  by  "Box," CO  " 

Oliver    Twist, 60  " 

The  Two  Apprentices,  23  " 
Wreck  of  the  Golden 

Mary, »  M 

Perils  of  certain   Kn- 

glish  Prisoners, 25  « 


LIBRARY    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

PiMUhed  in  S*t*n  different  Stylet. 

This  Edition  is  complete  in  SIX  very  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait  on  (Ml 
tf  Charles  Dickens,  containing  the  whole  of  the  above  works,  bnudBomely  priMed 
ind  bound  in  various  styles. 

Vol.  I  contains  Pickwick  Papers  and  Curiosity  Shop. 
«      3       do.       Oliver    Twist,    Sketches    by    "Box,"    and    Bar. 

naby  Rudge. 

«      3       do.       Nicholas  Nlckleby,  and    Martin  Chiixzlewlt. 
«      *       do.       David     Cnpprrflclil,      Uombey     and     Sou,    »*d 

Christmas  Stories. 

«      5       do.        Bleak  House,  and  Dickens'  New  Stories. 
"      6       do.       Little  Dorrlt.    In  two  books— Poverty  and  Riches. 

Piiee  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth, ftg  at 

Scarlet  cloth,  extra, IQM 

Law  Library  style „  il.ot 

Half  Turkey,  or  Half  Calf, 1S.O* 

Half  calf,  marbled  edges.  French 14  M 

H«!f  calf,  real  ancient  antique l&Of 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 10.M 


ILLUSTRATED    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

THIS  EDITION  IS  IN  THIRTEEN  VOLTTMES,  and  Is  printed  on  very  (Lu« 
tod  flno  white  paper,  and  is  profusely  illnntrau-i  with  all  the  original  Ulnstrattj:* 
•7  Croikabank.  Alfred  Cruwquill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  •ditions,  c« 
•oppvr,  cte«l.  and  wood.  Each  volume  contains  _  novel  complete,  and  may  be  kas 
la  sosBplvM  sett*,  beautifully  bound  iu  cloth,  for  Nineteen  Dollars  s  sett :  or  aay 


«    T.  B  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PTFBIICATIONS. 


T»lunie  will  be  sold  separately  at  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cenis  each.    The  followim 
»re  their  respective  name* : 

Little  Dorrtt.  Nicholas  Nickleby. 


Pickwick   Papers. 
Barnaby  Rudge. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Bleak  House. 
David  Copperneld. 
Dombey  and  Sou. 


Christmas  Stories. 
Martin  ChuzzlewU. 
Sketches  by   "Box." 
Oliver  Twist. 
Dickens'  fl*ew  Stories 


fie«  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth,  In  Thirteen  volumes, $19  ,o 

Fall  Law  Library  style, 26'^ 

Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey, 29.00 

Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 32.6* 

Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 39  00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc $9.00 


DUODECIMO     ILLUSTRATED     EDITION. 

CompUto  in   Twenty-Five  Volumes. 

The  Edition*  in  Duodecimo  form  are  beautifully  Illustrated  with  over  Five  Hun- 
<tred  Steel  and  Wood  Illustrations,  from  designs  by  Crnikshank,  Phiz,  Lee«h, 
Browne,  Maclise,  ete.,  illustrative  of  th«  best  scenes  in  each  work,  making  it  the 
most  beautiful  and  perfect  edition  in  the  world ;  and  each  work  is  also  reprinted 
from  the  first  original  London  editions  that  were  issued  by  subscription  in  monthly 
numbers,  and  the  volumes  will  be  found,  on  examination,  to  be  published  on  tha 
flneut  and  best  of  white  paper. 

This  edition  of  Dickens'  Works  is  now  published  complete,  entire,  and  unabridged 
In  Twenty-five  beautiful  volumes,  and  supplies  what  has  long  been  wanted,  an  edi- 
tion that  bhall  combine  the  advantages  of  portable  size,  large  and  readable  type, 
and  uniformity  with  other  standard  English  authors. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  has  been  gotten  up  n.t  an  expense  of  over  Forty-Fivt 
Thousand  Dollars,  but  the  publishers  trust  that  an  appreciative  public  will  repay 
them  for  the  outlay,  by  a  generous  purchase  of  the  volumes.  All  they  ask  is  for 
the  public  to  examine  them,  and  they  are  confident  they  will  exclaim,  with  one 
voice,  that  they  are  the  handsomest  and  cheapest,  and  bast  illustrated  Sett  of  Works 
•ver  published.  This  edition  is  sold  in  setts,  in  various  styles  K  binding,  or  any 
work  can  be  had  separately,  handsomely  bound  In  cloth,  ir  two  volumes  each, 
trice  42.60  a  sett,  as  follows: 


Pickwick  Papers. 
Nicholas  Nickleby. 
David  Copperfleld. 
Oliver  Twist. 
Bleak    House. 
Little    Dorrlt. 
Dombey  and  Son. 


Sketch**  by  "Box." 
Barnaby  Rudge. 
Mart  in  Chuzzlewlt. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Christmas  Stories. 
Dickens'    New  Stories. 


ft  sett  in  1-wentv-Five  volumes,  bound  in  Black  cloth,  gilt  cacKs $30  Ot 

Full  Law  Library  style, 40.0C 

Scarlet,  full  gilt,  sides,  edges,  etc., £>.00 

"  Half  calf,  ancient  antique 80-tK 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  hack JO.OC 

"  Full  calf,  ancient  antique »J  «« 

Full  calf,  gilt  edices,  bs«ks.  etc 7«-<» 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUS II CATIONS.    7 


PEOPLE'S     DUODECIMO    EDITION. 

PuHtthtd  in  Eight  Different  Styltt. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  is  complete  in  Thirteen  volumes,  of  near  One  Thousand 
•ages  each,  with  two  illustrations  to  each  volume,  bat  is  not  printed  01  a«  thick 
or  *c  fine  paper  as  the  Illustrated  Edition,  bat  contains  all  the  reading  uiutiei  thai 
Uin  the  Illustrated  Edition,  printed  from  large  type,  leaded.  The  volumes  art 
•old  separately  or  together,  price  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each,  neatly  bound  IB 
•loth ;  or  a  complete  sett  of  Thirteen  volumes  in  this  style  will  be  sold  for  $W.OO. 
following  are  their  names: 


Nicholas  Nlckleby. 
Christmas   Stories. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop, 
Sketches  by  «  Box." 
Oliver  Twist. 
Dickens'   New   Stories. 


Little  Dorrlt. 
Pickwick  Papers. 
Martin  Chnzzlewtt. 
Barnaby   Rudge. 
Bleak  House. 
David  Copperfleld. 
Dombey  and  Son. 

Price  of  a  sett,  In  Black  cloth $19.00 

"  "        Fall  Law  Library  style, 24.00 

«  "         Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey.. H.QQ 

•«  "        Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French 28.00 

«  "         Half  calf,  ancient  antique M.OO 

Half  calf,  f.ill  gilt  backs, S±00 

"  "        Full  calf,  ancient  antique, 40.00 

Fall  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc 40.00 

ADVENTURES    AND    TRAVELS. 


Harris's  Explorations  In 
South  Africa.  By  Major  Corn- 
wallis  Harris.  This  book  is  a  rich 
treat.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $l.i'.. 

Wild  Oats  Sown  Abroad}   or, 


Don  Q,ulxotte — Life  and  Ad- 
ventures  of  Don  Quixotic  t 

and  his  Squire,  Sancho  Panza.    ( -.,1,1- 
plete  in  two  volumes,  paper    <.   \  T 
Price  $1.00. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Paul 


On  and  Off  Soundings.     Price  60  cents 
In  paper  cover ;  or  cloth,  gilt,  75  cents. 

EUGENE    SUE'S    GREAT    NOVELS. 


Periwinkle.  Full  of  Illubtratious. 

I'IM-.    .'•"  (••  :.:-. 


Illustrated  Wandering  Jew. 

With  Eighty-seven  large  Illustrations. 

Two  volumes.    Price  $1.00. 
Mysteries    of  Paris)   and  Ge- 

rolstein,  the   Sequel  to  It.     Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.    Price  $1.00. 
First  Love.    A  Story  of  the.  Heart. 

Price  2£  cents. 
Woman's  Love.  Illustrated.  Price 

25  cents. 


Martin  the  Foundling.  Bcaa- 
tifnlly  Illustrated.  Tw.i  volume*,  pa- 
per cover.  Price  One  Dollar. 

The  Man-of-War's-Man.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Price  25  cents. 

The  Female  Bluebeard.  On« 
volume.  Price  25  cents. 

Raoul  de  Survllle.  One  v«lame. 
Price  25  cents.  (In  Prut.) 


GEORGE    LIPPARD'S   WORKS. 


Legends     of    the     American 

Revolution;  or,  Washington  and 
bis  Generals.  Two  vols.  Price  $1.00. 
The  Quaker  City  |  or,  The  Monks 
of  Monk  Hall  Two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dollar. 

Paul  Ardenheimt  the  Monk  of 
Wlssahikon.  Two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dollar. 

Blanche   of   Brandywlne.     A 

Revolutionary   Romance.     Two  vol- 
ume*, paper  sover.    Price  One  Dollar. 


The    Nazarene.     One  voL     Pries 

60  cents. 
Legends  of  Mexico.   OnevoluM* 

Price  25  cents. 
The    Lady    of    Albarone;    or, 

The  Point >n  Goblet.     Two  volume*,  p*> 

r cover.    Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  bound 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.20.    (In 


New  York  i  Its  Upper  Ten 
and  Lower  Million.  One  vol- 
ume. Price  60  cents. 


9  T,  B,  PETEBSOSJ  BROTHERS'  PliBLICMll  \ 

The  Books  on  this  Page  are  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications  by 

the  most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World.     They  are 

also  the  most  Readable  and  Entertaining  Books  published. 

Suitable  for  tie  Parlor,  Library,  Sitting-Room,  Railroad,  Stsamboat,  or  Chamber  Reading. 

PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

Twenty-Kin*  Different  Editions. 

'PETERSON'S"  are  the  only  complete  and  uniform  editions  of  Charles  Dickens 
Works  ever  published  in  the  world;  they  are  printed  from  the  original  London  Edi- 
tions, and  are  the  only  editions  published  in  this  country.  No  library,  either 
public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it  a  complete  sett  of  the 
Xorks  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors.  Every  family  hhonld  possess  a 
sett  of  one  of  the  editions.  The  cheap  edition  ia  published  as  follows: 


Little  Dorrlt, Price  60  cents. 

Pickwick  Papers, 60     " 


Dlcken.'  New  Storle.,  60  B.rnaby  Rudg« 


Dombey   and  Son, CO 

Nicholas  Nlckleby, 00 


Christmas  Stories, Price  00  cents. 
Martin  Clinztlt  wit,  ...  60      " 


Sketches  by  "Box," 60 

Oliver   Twist, ....  60 


LIBRARY    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

This  Edition  is  complete  in  SIX  very  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait  on  steel 
of  Charles  Dickens,  containing  all  of  the  above  works,  bound  in  various  styles. 

Price  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth .'. 18.00 

"  Scarlet  cloth,  extra, 10.00 

44  j>aw  Library  style, 11.00 

"  Half  Turkey,  or  Half  Calf, 1:1.00 

«  Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French U..V) 

«i  Half  calf  real  ancient  autioiie 18.00 

«  Half  calf;  full  gilt  backs,  etc. 18.00 

•«»• 

ILLUSTRATED  OCTAVO  EDITION. 
THIS  EDITION  IS  IN  THIRTEEN  VOLUMES,  and  is  printed  on  very  thick 
and  fine  white  paper,  and  is  profusely  illustrated  with  all  the  original  Illustrations 
by  Cruikshank,  Alfred  Crowqnill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  editions,  on 
copper,  steel,  and  wood.  Each  volume  contains  a  novel  complete,  and  may  be  had 
-  separately,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth.  Price  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each.  ' 

Price  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth,ln  Thirteen  volumes, $19.00 

Full  Law  Library  style, 28.00 

"  Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey, 29.00 

Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 32.30 

"  Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 39.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  back»,  etc 39.00 


\  Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by^Iail  to  anyone,  Free  (• 
3  of 

OQ 


of  Postage,  on  mailing  the  Price  in  a  letter  to  Peterson  &  Brothers,  f* 

J3Q 


mum 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  L...A  OOP  Q26  341   8 

The  Books  on  this  Page  are  the  Best  and  Latest   Publications  by 

the  most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World.     They  are 

also  the  most  Readable  and  Entertaining  Books  published. 

Suitable  for  to  Parlor,  Litrary,  Sitting-Room,  Railroad,  Stsamlcat,  or  GhanLer  Reading. 

PUBLISHED    AND    FOR     SALE     BY 

T.  B.  PETERSON   &  BROTHERS,   PHILADELPHIA. 

DUODECIMO     ILLUSTRATED     EDITION     OF 
CHARLES    DICKENS'    WORKS. 

The  Editions  in  Duodecimo  form  are  beautifully  Illustrated  with  over  Five  Hun- 
dred Steel  and  Wood  niuntrations,  from  designs  by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  Leech, 
Browne,  Maclise,  etc.,  illustrative  of  the  best  scenes  in  each  work,  making  it  the 
moist  beautiful  and  perfect  edition  in  the  world.  This  edition  of  Dickens'  Work* 
li  now  published  complete,  entire,  and  unabridged,  in  Twenty-five  beautiful  vol- 
umes, and  supplies  what  hag  long  been  wanted,  an  edition  that  shall  combine  the 
advantages  of  portable  size,  large  and  readable  type,  and  uniformity  with  other 
standard  English  authors.  This  edition  is  sold  in  setts,  in  various  styles  of  bind- 
ing, or  any  work  can  be  had  separately,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth,  in  two 
volumes  each.  Price  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-Five  cents  a  volume. 
Price  of  a  sett  in  Twenty-Five  volumes,  bound  in  Black  cloth,  gilt  backs,.. ..$30.00 

•«  "         Full  Law  Library  style, 40.00 

Scarlet,  full  gilt,  sides,  edges,  etc 45.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  ancient  antique, 60.00 

•«  "         Half  calf,  full  gilt  back 60.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  a ucieiit  antique, ,.  76.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc., 75.00 


PEOPLE'S     DUODECIMO    EDITION. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  is  complete  in  Thirteen  volumes,  of  near  Oue  Thousand 
pages  each,  with  two  illustrations  to  each  volume,  and  contains  all  the  reading 
matter  that  is  in  the  Illustrated  Edition,  printed  from  large  type,  leaded.  The 
volumes  are  sold  separately,  in  cloth,  price  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each. 

Price  of  a  sett,  in  Black  cloth, ., ,$19.00 

"  •'         Full  Law  Library  style 24.00 

«•  "         Half  calf,  or  half  Turkey, 26.00 

"       *"         Half  calf,  marbled  edges,  French, 2S.OO 

"  "         Half  calf,  aucient  antique 32.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs, 32.00 

•«  •'         Full  calf,  ancient  antique 40.00 

"         Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc 40.00 

HUMOROUS    ILLUSTRATED    WORKS. 


Mnjor  Jones'  Courtship  and 
.  Travels.  Beautifully  illustrated. 
One  volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

Major  Jones'  Scenes  in  Geor- 
gia. Full  of  beautiful  illustrations. 
One  volume,  cloth.  Price  $1.25. 

Sam  Slick,  tlie  Clockmafeer. 
By  Judge  Haliburton.  Illustrated. 


Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price  One 
Dollar ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.2j. 

Simon  Suggs'  Adventures 
and  Travels.  Illustrate  1.  One 
volume,  cloth.  Pric«j  $1.25. 

Humors  of  Palconbridge.  Two 
volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dol- 
lar; or  one  vol.,  cloth,  :'  r  $1.23. 


>)  Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail  to  any  one,  Free  (< 
f  ostage,  on  mailing  the  Price  in  a  letter  to  Peterson  &  Brothers.   £ 

—    .  r-je-£$(& 


